


Half of What We Know

by mustdefine



Series: Crooked Line [2]
Category: Gymnastics RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustdefine/pseuds/mustdefine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a year after the London Olympics. </p><p>Only half of what we know comes true in time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Glide kip. Cast handstand. Aly overbalances for the third time this morning and drops on the far side of the low bar. Off to the side, Mihai shakes his head wearily.

“Aly, what did I tell you? Too fast! Go again. Slower.”

Aly swipes an arm across her forehead and ducks under the bar. She doesn’t look at Mihai. Jumps, catches the bar, swings and kips again. This time she holds the handstand.

“Better. Stay straight.”

Months after the Games, the tour, and the American Cup, her bars have gotten worse. Mihai says it’s mental, has her doing deep breathing and visualization to overcome it. Aly dutifully does the exercises. Nothing’s helping. 

An image of a familiar face appears in her mind’s eye.  _Not again._  Seeing that image is painful enough. What’s worse are the remembered shouts of encouragement that come with it, a voice that always cut through the din of competition to lift her up:  _Come on, Aly!_  

Her transition to the high bar is sloppy. She has to muscle back into her swing. 

Another image: a hotel room during the Kellogg’s tour. Jordyn grinning like a banshee as she dives onto their bed.  _You can’t handle this!_

Aly’s brain must be actively trying to sabotage her now. It’s working, because she doesn’t catch her first release move. The mat whooshes under her knees and Aly looks up at the high bar in near despair. She hates this fucking apparatus.

Mihai sighs. It’s been a long morning for them both. ”Take a break, OK? Ten minutes. Compose yourself.”

She nods, peels off her grips, wills herself to hold it together until she can reach the bathroom. In that sanctuary, though, she doesn’t let the tears fall. Instead she grips the sink and screws her eyes shut. 

It’s been the longest three weeks of Aly’s life. She’s worked through some tough shit in the past, but this is by far the worst. She’s always had Jordyn to talk to before.

Only three weeks ago she’d been Skyping with Jordyn, both of them trying to pretend everything was normal. “So how’s the leg,” she said, examining the coat of toenail polish she’d just applied. It helped to have something to look at during their conversations. Jordyn had been acting standoffish, as if trying to have a long-distance relationship wasn’t hard enough. The fact that an unfortunately-timed car accident was a safe topic these days was seriously messed up.

“About the same _._ Docs say I can be in a boot in a few weeks. Oh, and the other guy’s insurance company finally called.”

“That’s great.”

“Yep.”

The conversation died yet again. Aly stared at her toes and ventured, “So I guess you’ll be set for Nationals. And, uh, our big family meeting.” She felt her stomach turn over at the thought. The plan they’d—she’d—concocted, after their parents had gotten along so well during the Cup. The first step in the larger, even more terrifying plan. But every time she’d brought it up lately, Jo had gone silent. 

“I … maybe. Yeah. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know about what?”

Jordyn bit her lip. “I don’t want to distract you, you’ve got a lot on your plate right now. I’d rather not talk about it, OK?”

_Fuck._  The facade of normalcy had become harder and harder to maintain with every word that remained unspoken between them. Everything in her yearned for life to be the way it’d been after London. She didn’t want to ask. She knew she had to.Silence was a slow poison and it was killing them. ”We’ve been not talking since the American Cup. This isn’t healthy. What’s going on?”

“Aly …”

“I need to know. Jordyn, please. If you care about me at all, you have to tell me what’s going on, I can’t take it any more.” 

“If that’s what you want.” Jo swallowed. “The thing is … the thing is, I’m not sure how far I want to go any more.”

She couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t real unless Jordyn said it. “Are you talking about gymnastics or us?”

Jordyn’s mouth twisted in pain. But to her credit, she answered, even as the future Aly had dreamed of drained away.

“Both.”

The sink doesn’t give under the pressure of Aly’s hands, though she’s gripping it hard enough to rip it from the wall. The clock on the wall ticks too loudly. Her break is up and she feels no more focused than when she walked in here. If she had the choice, she would go home right now and curl up in a fetal position. But there is no choice, because she’s already made it simply by showing up: to continue training like she always has. Nationals and Worlds are in a few months. Every workout counts, even the bad ones.

She bottles up her emotions as best she can and leaves the restroom. She breathes in and out, walks to the bars. The chalk is silky against her callused fingertips. “Ready?” Mihai asks her. She isn’t. But there are no excuses to give. 

*          *          *

The next day on the way home from practice, Aly pulls over and cries for ten minutes. She’s more frustrated with herself than Mihai is. If she were in the middle of an international competition right now and had to perform for her team’s sake, she could do it. But she can’t focus now that the pressure’s only on her. She doesn’t know why that is. She’s had personal drama and bad weeks at the gym before … not on this level, but still, she’s always been able to rely on her innate drive. Aly feels rudderless, tossed about and drifting in the wake of a storm. 

She thinks of Jordyn, who’s planning to enter UCLA in a few months. She’s probably caught up in the excitement of planning her classes, shopping for her dorm, and preparing for a new life without a thought for Aly. 

No, that’s unfair. Jordyn knows how important these next few months are to Aly. Jordyn hadn’t wanted to tell her. Jordyn would have pretended for her sake.

Up to a point, anyway. 

_Shit. Goddamn motherfucking hell in a shitsack._  

Aly doesn’t swear much or especially well. And after a few minutes she has to admit that sitting in a car cursing at herself isn’t making her feel better. Instead she takes out her phone and taps an entry at the top of her contact list.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Alicia.”

“Aly! How ya been, woman?”

“Good. I’m good,” Aly lies. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Oh, you know. Kicking ass, taking names, the yoozh. How’s training going?”

Her throat constricts. “Sucktastic.”

“Aw, sorry to hear that. Bars?”

“Bars.”

“Feh. You’ll get it. You’re awesome.”

“Not feeling so awesome these days.”

“No?” 

“No, I … ” Aly is silent. She can almost hear Alicia prick up her ears on the other end of the line. 

“Aly?”

“Jordyn and I broke up,” Aly blurts. “We didn’t even tell anyone we were together. I mean, I wanted to tell people, but she didn’t know if she wanted to come out or what she was doing with her life, and then we broke up. I haven’t been able to think about anything else for the last month or whatever and I just, everything is going wrong in the gym, and even if I pull it together for Nationals and Worlds it won’t be the same without her there. I want to talk to her because she’s the person I always talk to, but I can’t. I don’t know who else to talk to because no one else knows about us. About it. Not my parents or Mihai or the team. No one except you, now. Leesh, I don’t know what to do.”

Alicia Sacramone isn’t often at a loss for words. She comes through for Aly. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry to hear that. And I’m really honored that you trust me enough to tell me this, and I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone if you don’t want me to. OK? I know this is coming at the worst time for you, but you’re so strong. You’re an incredible gymnast and you’re one of the most focused, hard-working people I know. I have faith that you’ll get through this. And speaking from experience—working through a breakup right now sucks, but you have to find a way to get outside your head. It  _super_  sucks that your ex is also a lock for this year’s national team, but you just have to deal, right? Like, be polite at the meets, but no texting or Facebook stalking—”

Aly interrupts the pep talk. “Leesh, she might not be coming back.”

“Not coming … wait, what?”

“It would almost be easier if I did have to deal with seeing her in person at meets and camp. But I’m not even going to see her. She’s thinking about going to college and taking some time off.” Jordyn’s words float through her memory:  _I don’t regret spending my entire life in the gym. But during the tour, I started feeling like I wanted to try having a normal life. You know? Like, I want to actually experience college. Maybe even have a boyfriend_.  _It sounds crazy, but I never had the time for that either …_  ”She wants to try boys. I feel like I’m being left behind or like I’m not good enough.”

“Oh, sweetie. I wish I weren’t out of town, I’d hug you so hard your head would pop off. You’re an amazing person, so don’t let yourself believe the crap your brain’s coughing up, OK? It sounds like Jordyn’s having a post-Olympic crisis. It’s understandable—I went through it and so did everyone on my team, although for different reasons. This isn’t about you in the end or your gender identity or all that stuff. It’s about her and who she wants to be. Maybe she’ll get herself together and things will work out, maybe not. You just can’t take it personally. Promise me you’ll try not to?”

” I …”

“Promise.”

Aly promises. 

Alicia leaves her with one last word of advice. “Emotional processing is one thing, but it’s really easy to wallow after a breakup. You can’t afford to do that. Find things to distract you in your downtime. Or think of it like in competition, like she’s one more thing you have to put out of your mind so you can do your best. Keep your mind clear and train your ass off.”

After Aly hangs up, she rests her forehead against the steering wheel. Then she wipes her eyes resolutely and heads for home. She has to rest. She has a second practice later and two tomorrow. 

*        *         *

At first she makes the mistake of thinking too much about not thinking about Jordyn. She analyzes her thought patterns and triggers, but soon gives up. Her room’s filled with souvenirs, trophies, and pictures fraught with memories. Creating a clean slate would mean removing almost all of it. She considers unfollowing Jordyn’s Twitter or Instagram but decides against it. The fans notice everything. The last thing she wants is a torrent of comments and questions. It’s not fair. Most people don’t have to process their first breakup with millions of people watching their every move. Even if no one knew about the relationship in the first place. 

She develops a new routine for the evenings when she and Jordyn used to talk. She lies in bed with her computer on her stomach and watches competition and routine videos … both a form of distraction and an attempt to psych herself into training better. She doesn’t look for Jordyn, though it seems every other recommended video on YouTube is for her. 

She spends a good chunk of time researching the Russians. They’re hungry for gold and they’ll have some new faces. They’ll be the team to beat at Worlds. She familiarizes herself with their names and strengths. YouTube has plenty of clips. Yet it’s not the new seniors gunning for national slots that draw her attention.

She clicks on one video because of a familiar face, one whose formidable confidence first struck her across an arena floor three years ago. She watches Mustafina float from low to high bar, land a fearless Amanar, soar above beam, and hold the crowd’s attention during FX. She watches herself standing next to Bross as Mustafina celebrates her commanding all-around win.

That footage is shadowed by foreknowledge. Aly can’t help but retrace the story: a two-and-a-half twist gone terribly wrong, surgery, a long road back. Incredible focus and determination despite pain and a changed body. A nearly-impossible recovery. A dark horse who surpassed all expectations. She remembers how Mustafina’s face would ease into a grin in London, more often than before her injury. That was a woman who had found it in herself to walk through fire and come out stronger. Not the same, but more herself. Aly draws strength from that. Maybe a broken heart can’t be equated to torn ligaments, but the way back from both requires mental strength and singular purpose. 

If Aliya didn’t wallow, then she won’t either. No more letting her subconscious run her over. She’ll be damned if she turns into a headcase. Aly puts away her computer and prepares for her meditation exercises. As she breathes, a phrase drifts through her head, the remnants of a song or poem:  _Only half of what we know comes true in time._

The images bleed in around the edges of her vision like always, but she tells herself they will fade. 

*         *        *

Weeks pass and she’s not completely over Jordyn. But she learns to cope, to get by. She regains her focus well enough for Nationals. As an Olympic team member, Aly automatically qualifies, yet she’s not guaranteed anything. So she goes out and hits her routines. She hopes it’s enough for Marta.

The selection camp that summer is nerve-wracking.  The new seniors are fresh and hungry. Everyone knows that Worlds will be different in this post-Olympic year: there’s no team final, so Marta is looking for more specialists as well as strong all-arounders. Their mock competitions are fierce. Aly knows her Olympic experience and the difficulty of her current floor routine make her a contender, but she feels old compared to everyone else.

One night she’s hanging out in McKayla’s cabin. Kyla and Gabby are chilling with younger friends in another cabin. Having everyone here at the ranch except Jordyn is strange, so strange that they haven’t really talked about it. Aly knows Jordyn told them all separately that she was taking a break from gymnastics, but her absence is … well, it’s kind of like somebody died and nobody knows what to say. Like everyone’s in denial and no one can move on. Here in the pressure cooker of camp, Aly misses Jo’s steadiness and jokes. Sometimes she wants to hate her. She can’t really. She wonders what Mustafina would do in her place. Probably stare her ex into submission. 

“Mac,” Aly says, “have you ever had a bad breakup? Like, really bad?”

“Um. I don’t know? Actually, yeah, when I was younger. This one boy.”

“What did you do to get over him?”

McKayla puts her phone down and stretches beside her on the bed. “Hmm. I listened to a lot of Taylor Swift. Then I got tired of moping around, so I dressed up and went out places looking spectacular. And then I dated a string of boys and broke their hearts with my awesomeness. Why? You’re still with Jo, right?”

Aly sits up abruptly and gapes at her friend. “How did you know that? We didn’t tell anyone!”

McKayla rolls her eyes. “Girl, please. Everybody knows.”

“Everybody?!”

“Most everybody,” McKayla amends. “Well, it’s more rumor than anything else, but everyone knows you guys are super close, so it was a pretty easy jump from there. And thank you for confirming it! Totally just made ten bucks.”

“What?!?”

“Kidding! Kidding. No, I’m really happy for you, I always thought … ” She trails off when she sees the look on Aly’s face. “No. Oh no. Did—”

“Yeah. Yeah. A couple months ago.”

“Oh, baby.” 

Aly lifts a shoulder and lies back down. “I guess she wasn’t ready for the next step. Telling our parents and then being the first Olympic gymnasts to come out.”

“That sucks, Aly. That really, really sucks.”

“Yeah.”

McKayla’s elfin face is serious. “Is that why Jo isn’t coming back?”

“That’s part of it, probably. She needed to work through some stuff. I’m all right, I can even kind of see where she was coming from. I’m just, like, stuck in the past even though I’m moving forward. Because all of this is the same, except she’s not here. It’s weird, you know?” 

“Yeah.” McKayla is quiet for a long moment. 

“Mac? I don’t want you to feel like you have to choose sides, OK? Don’t stop being her friend just because we’re not together any more.”

McKayla presses her lips together and nods, then scoots over and curls a hand around Aly’s bicep. “Know what you need?”

Aly tries to lighten the mood. “A healthy ankle and a better preflight on my two-and-a-half?”

“No. Well, yes, but no. What you need, my friend, is a fling. And for that you’re gonna need a wingman.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Lucky for you I’m the best wingman you could ask for. After Worlds, I’m going to go out there and find you a super-hot chick who’ll love you aaaall night lo—”

Aly rolls over and claps a hand over her friend’s mouth. “Mac!! God!”

“Mmm mfff mmm.”

“Only if you promise never to say something like that again.”

“Well, that is what you need, right? No strings attached, someone you don’t have to see all the time. Someone completely different. No more jocks. One of those dancer-types, maybe a Romanian or a Russian.”

That face pops into Aly’s mind. Maybe not surprising, since she’s been using it as a talisman of sorts to ward off another. She flushes under her tan.

“Ooh! Wait, a Russian? Aly, is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Ummm … no, it doesn’t matter, she’s taken.”

McKayla sits up and smacks her thigh. “Alexandra Rose Raisman! You already like someone?! You have to at least tell me who it is!”

“OK, but you can’t tell  _anyone_. It’s, um, it’s not a new thing … Rotterdam was when I … I mean, I don’t really  _like_  like her, but her eyes are, uh … ” She’s astonished to find she’s actually blushing. 

“Oh my god,” says McKayla. “It’s Mustafina, isn’t it.”

Aly flings an arm over her eyes in defeat. “I don’t know why I bother trying to keep my feelings secret when  _everyone knows them anyway_.”

McKayla gives her a smile worthy of the Cheshire cat. “Wait till Worlds,” she promises Aly. “If she’s taken, I’ll find you another one. Whoever it is, it’s gonna be awesome. I hope Mustafina’s interested, though, you’d be sooo cute together.”

Aly smiles but shakes her head. Yeah, so maybe she’s always had a bit of a crush on Mustafina. She was simply too oblivious to realize it when it started. And now? Mustafina has a girlfriend (and/or a boyfriend, if she believes everything she sees on the internet), so it’s the safest crush in the world. If Aly’s thinking about someone unobtainable, even casually, she’s not thinking about someone she thought would be hers forever.

“All right,” she says, humoring her friend. “Wingman.”

McKayla rubs her hands together. “Oh, this is going to be interesting.”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has always known that of the two of them, she was the one who loved more.

Aliya’s waiting for Vika after lunch when she gets a text. 

_Hey i can’t make it today i forgot Nik asked me to hang out during rest period. Later? )))))_

Aliya doesn’t reply immediately like she usually does. She looks down at her phone and bites her lip.  _OK_ , she sends. She wants to say something less ambiguous, but after all, she and Vika see each other all day every day in the training halls. She’s not supposed to begrudge Vika the rare moments she can spend with her boyfriend. Instead she seeks out a rarely-used lounge in a corner of the Round Lake complex. She’s sprawled on a couch staring into space when she hears a voice.

“Alka, you all right? I saw you in the hallway.”

She shrugs. 

“Want some company?”

Aliya grunts.

Pavel scoops a hand under her ankles, sits down, and rearranges her legs over his lap. “There, comfortable?” he says, smiling. Against her will, Aliya feels the corners of her mouth turn up for a brief moment. He pulls out his phone; she does too. They lapse into comfortable silence. Pavel knows better than to push her to talk.

When she’s ready, she sits up and leans into his shoulder. “Something’s going on with Vika.”

He lowers his phone. “She OK? She’s not sick or anything?”

“No, it’s not that. She’s just been spending a lot of time with Nikita lately.”

“Well, he is her boyfriend,” Pavel points out.

And that’s the problem: they all have boyfriends. Aliya frowns.

Acquiring a boyfriend is the thing to do here at Round Lake. The older juniors spend all their off time giggling and talking about boys. The new seniors jockey for position in the boyfriend race. Aliya, well … it’s different for her. She’s always been genuinely fond of Pavel. Behind the teenage boy facade, he’s sweet, thoughtful, and funny—and not a bad kisser. So when people started referring to him as her boyfriend, Aliya didn’t correct them … let the label turn into reality through inertia. It was convenient. She’s always taken his silence as permission. 

No one here ever talks about the girls are with each other, how some of them choose Aliya’s path, not even the girls themselves. It’s how things are in Russia. Though she and Pavel have never discussed the matter, she’s sure he knows about her and Vika. He gets a distant look sometimes when Aliya talks about her girlfriend. She wonders guiltily if she should have mentioned her troubles to him at all.

“I feel like she’s been blowing me off a lot lately. You know I like being alone, but if she’s not with Masha, then she’s with Nikita. Mostly she’s with Nikita these days.”

“Nik’s a good guy. He wouldn’t hurt her.”

“I’m not worried about her safety like that,” she says, not entirely truthfully. “I’m worried that she’s getting distracted in the gym. Little things, like more balance checks than usual on beam, miscalculations on vault, things like that.”

“Well, she is still growing. Maybe you can’t see it since you’re around her all the time? That would lead to mistakes.”

“This is different. She has the physical capability to perform. She’s simply not mentally there.”

“You think something happened with her and Nik?”

“I don’t know. I just want her back. I miss her.”

Aliya catches that far-off look in Pavel’s eyes. But he gives her a hug before he gets up. “You should talk to her,” he says, smiling with an effort he probably doesn’t think she discerns. “And let me know if you want me to talk to Nik. See you later, OK?”

“OK. And Pasha? Thanks for listening.”

She watches him walk away. She wishes she didn’t hurt him so much. But he has to have known from the start that Vika is the only one for her. 

*         *         *

Aliya notices when Vika starts avoiding her in the gym as well as out of it. The little gymnast seems worryingly unfocused.

“You OK?” Aliya says to her one morning. 

“Only my pride is injured,” Vika says into the crash mat. A cloud of chalk gently dissipates around her. 

“That must be the tenth time you’ve fallen off bars today. Something wrong?”

Vika heaves herself up, avoiding eye contact. “Guess I’m having an off day.” 

“Want to talk about it later?”

“Can’t later, busy. But thanks, I’ll be fine. Just need to concentrate.” She hoists herself up onto the low bar and leaps, leaving Aliya behind. Aliya stands motionless at the chalk bowl and watches her girlfriend with a frown. 

Later that evening she sees Vika and Nikita in the cafeteria with their heads together, looking at something on his phone. Nikita says something that makes Vika laugh. Aliya doesn’t fail to notice how she brushes against his shoulder and touches his leg. She feels a hot jolt of jealousy. 

Aliya wants to give Vika a chance to explain. But whenever Aliya tries to corner her girlfriend, Vika manages to slip away. Aliya simmers for a week until she can’t take it any longer. She doesn’t like to make demands on other people; she needs her space and so usually gives others the benefit of the doubt. But this is ridiculous.

A few days before the team leaves for Worlds, Aliya finally manages to get Vika to come to her room alone after practice on their light training day. Although it’s been a while for them, Vika is less responsive in bed than usual. Frustrated, Aliya rolls off and stares at her.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“You might as well tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“You’ve been distracted in the gym and it’s been getting worse. What’s wrong?”

Vika picks at the twisted sheets. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me. Something’s going on with you and Nikita, isn’t it?”

The other girl looks up too quickly. “What? Why would you say that?”

“You’ve been hanging out with him a lot. Should I be jealous?” Aliya can hear the edge in her voice but can’t control it.

Vika’s temper flares. She says hotly, “He’s my boyfriend. I like him. I’m allowed to spend time with him.”

“You were my girlfriend first. What happened to spending time with me?” Aliya sits up. “Vika, are you sleeping with him?”

Vika pauses a moment too long. Aliya recoils as if she’s been sucker-punched.

“Seriously?! What the hell?”

“I’m not sleeping with him! I swear it.”

“Oh, aren’t you?” 

“No! I’m not!”

“But you’ve come close to it. You want to,” Aliya says.

“I—”

“You what?”

“Well, so what if I want to? Alka, I like being with you, I really do, but I’ve never been with anyone else. I’m growing up and I feel like … like this urgency, I don’t know, like I haven’t experienced everything. How will I know what I want unless I try new things?”

“If he’s pressuring you into this—”

“No. This is all me.”

Aliya lets out an incredulous breath. “I can’t believe it. You’re breaking up with me because you want to fuck a guy.”

“God, why do you have to be like that? This is why I didn’t want to talk to you, I knew you’d freak out!” Vika runs a hand through her hair in frustration. “We don’t  _have_  to break up, OK? I think about you and him like you’re separate things. You have Pasha, why can’t I have Nik?”

“That’s different!” 

“How is it different?! Why does Aliya Mustafina always get to have what she wants, but it’s the end of the world if Komova likes two people?”

Aliya presses a fist to her mouth. It feels like her world is imploding. Little things intrude on her notice as the moment stretches taut: the ticking of a clock, dust motes in a sunbeam, the way Vika smells. The way Vika looks, all messy blonde hair and snapping eyes. She’d irrevocably lost her heart to little Komova the first time she’d seen her across the width of an exercise floor. Now, although they’re right next to each other, the distance is insurmountable. The truth of her relationship with Pavel seems a paltry and vulnerable bridge.

She has always known that of the two of them, she was the one who loved more. To see that thrown back at her hurts more than she’d thought possible. Vika wants to have it both ways, but Aliya has too much pride to share her place in Vika’s heart. 

She picks up her clothes. “Fuck whoever you want,” Aliya says. “I’m done.”

*    *      *

The Russian women’s team is an absolute mess. They’ve been in Antwerp for two days but still feel jetlagged, and practice has not been going well. Across the room on bars, Tatiana has definitely looked better. Anastasia keeps bailing out of a handstand after her overshoot. And, of course, Vika has been falling off of beam the entire morning.

Not that Aliya’s doing particularly well herself. She barely lands on the beam after a switch ring, feels herself falling like she did in London. Aliya hops off and bites back a growl of sheer frustration. Her ankles hurt like always. She leans down and rubs one. 

She can feel the vibrations when Vika lands on the beam next to hers and hear the frequent whuff of the mat when she falls off. The girls don’t usually talk much when they train, but this is different. Tanya’s long since given up on making jokes. Nastia glares at Aliya when she thinks Aliya doesn’t see. As for Vika, she never looks at her ex-girlfriend. Aliya wishes Evgeny would have assigned her and Vika to different practice rotations, but he clearly doesn’t sense the tension in the room. She wonders how that is possible. The very air feels heavy, like a hand pressing down on them all.

Suddenly Aliya can’t take this any longer. She stalks off without a word to anyone. Evgeny says her name, but Aleksandr speaks quietly to him. Good. No one will follow her. Aliya knows she needs to practice more if she’s going to post good qualifying scores tomorrow, but at the moment she doesn’t care. The last thing she wants right now is to be around her team. Or around anyone, really. 

She finds the training room between the two practice gyms. A gaggle of Americans spills out of the doorway, talking loudly. They don’t look at her.  _Typical Americans. Loud and cocky._ Aliya waits until they’ve gone and pulls the door open. She stops in the doorway. The room is still occupied.

Aly Raisman is sitting in the back of the room on a weight bench, elbows on knees and legs in an ice bucket. Her eyes are downcast and she’s clutching an iPhone in one hand so hard that her knuckles are white. After a moment she carefully sets the phone down beside her and bows her head. 

Aliya wavers in the doorway. She doesn’t want to intrude, but neither does she want to go back to her team. There aren’t many other places of refuge around here. 

Some small noise she makes alerts the American. Dark eyes look up at her. “Aliya. I didn’t see you there.” 

“Sorry. Not meaning to interrupt. I will leave.”

“No, no. Don’t go.” Aly unobtrusively swipes under her eyes and attempts a laugh. “We keep running into each other at these things, huh?”

Aliya jerks her chin in the direction of the ice bath. “You maybe running too much.”

Aly smiles crookedly. “Getting old. My ankles hurt.”

“Yes. Me also.”

“There’s plenty of room if you want to share.”

Aliya bites her lip. She and Raisman have a friendship of sorts, but sharing an ice bath … that’s the kind of thing you only do with your teammates. And she had been seeking solitude. Staying here could mean making conversation. 

As if reading her thoughts, Aly’s smile twists further. “Don’t worry. We don’t have to talk.”

Aliya looks back over her shoulder. No sign of anyone coming to find either of them.  _What the hell._ She closes the door. Aly scoots over so that Aliya can sit down beside her. Aliya strips tape off her ankles, plunges her feet into the icy water, and controls a shudder with practiced ease. The cold feels good on her joints. 

“Americans find out you have bath with Russian, kick you off team.”

“Not if I kick them in the face first,” Aly says. “The younger girls made off with the other ice buckets for some prank, so it’s not like we have a choice.”

Aliya nods. The conversation lapses into pensive but not uncomfortable silence. Against her will, Aliya’s thoughts return to Vika. A welter of emotions pulses inside her. Anger, bitterness, confusion, grief. Loneliness. She draws a breath in and lets it out slowly, trying not to think about her ex. If only she could escape for a time and get her emotions sorted out. Being cooped up with her teammates rubs her raw.

Next to her, the American’s solid frame radiates warmth. It’s soothing in a way. Aliya studies Aly’s profile out of the corner of her eye. 

“American team leaves, you are not going back with them?”

“My coach is talking to somebody. I’m just here for a few more minutes.” Aly sighs. “You ever wish you could be alone before competition? I mean, I love my girls, I really do. But sometimes, especially the younger ones …”

Aliya shrugs. Her shoulder bumps Aly’s. “Yes. But it is what it is. We compete anyway. Later we leave when no one see, go think.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty good at that, aren’t we?” Aly turns to her. “You were really nice to me that night in London when I needed to talk. I haven’t forgotten that.”

Aliya smiles in answer. Being nice is easy—she likes Raisman. The American competes well and always shows good sportsmanship. She’s not bad-looking, either. 

“So how’s your teammate doing? She’s here, right? Viktoria?”

Her smile vanishes. For a moment she can’t speak. “Yes. Is here. And you?”

It takes Aly a moment to figure out who Aliya means. Her eyes dart involuntarily to the phone at her side. “Oh. No, Jordyn’s not here.”

“You have girl problem?” 

Aly hesitates. She searches Aliya’s eyes as if wondering if she can trust her. “Yeah. Yeah, I kinda do. You too?”

Before Aliya says anything, they hear steps outside and a voice. “Aly!”

“In here.”

Aliya launches herself out of the ice bucket as if shot from a cannon. She makes it to the other side of the room by the treadmill right before the door opens. Mihai Brestyan sticks his head in. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, just give me a moment.” Aly pulls the towel from around her shoulders and starts drying her feet.

“OK,” he says. He glances at Aliya in curiosity but doesn’t say anything before closing the door. When Aliya looks back at Aly, the American is grinning at her.

“You’re ashamed of me.”

“Of course ashamed. If my team hear I have bath with American, they shoot me behind arena.”

Aly’s grin widens. “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll at least buy you dinner first.” She comes over and hands Aliya the towel. “Here, I saved half for you.”

“Thank you,” Aliya says, a little taken aback by Aly’s consideration (or is it flirtation?). She sits down to dry her feet with the unused portion. The bucket is mostly water now, melted from their combined body heat. Aly crouches next to her and lifts it. The muscles and tendons stand out in her arms and shoulders as she carries the bucket to the sink. Aliya watches thoughtfully. She wonders what it would be like to have a teammate as reliable and easy-going as Aly. There would probably be less crying and definitely more hit routines.

She rises and tosses the towel in the direction of the laundry hamper. Aly comes up beside her.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you out there tomorrow. Good luck.” 

“Good luck.” They hug briefly. Aliya reaches out and catches Aly’s wrist before she leaves. “Alexandra. You are strong. You will do well. Forget this girl.”

Warm fingers squeeze hers. “Thank you. I know you’re going to do awesome too, I’m really looking forward to seeing your routines.”

Aliya returns to her team and mounts the beam as if she hasn’t been absent for the last ten minutes. She feels calmer. She does not fall again.


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aly and Aliya at 2013 Worlds.

Aly wakes up before her alarm. For a few blessed moments she lies there enjoying the warmth of her bed and listening to McKayla bang around in the bathroom. Then two thoughts hit her with almost physical force.

One. The all-around is today.

Two. Jordyn has a boyfriend.

Aly rolls over and stares at the ceiling. Despite herself, she reaches for her phone and pulls up Instagram once more, as if obsessively looking at the picture could dispel a nightmare. But nothing about this is a dream: Jordyn looking drop-dead gorgeous in a dress and immaculate makeup, ready for a night out. The caption reads, “Going on a date!! I get to meet his family tonight, little nervous :)”

She knows the caption by heart now. And she knows every inch of that body, but miles and months are between them, and she can only look and not touch.

McKayla emerges from the bathroom in a billow of steam. “Great, you’re awake!”

“Yeah,” Aly says mechanically. 

“I think we need some tunes. Gotta get you pumped up for today!”

Aly turns onto her side and stifles a groan. She doesn’t really feel emotionally ready for a competition.

“Come on, time to get up and beautify ourselves. You want to look good on the medal stand.”

“In a minute.”

That’s probably what gives Aly away. She usually loves doing makeup with the girls the mornings of their meets, blaring music and talking over each other. She hears a clatter as McKayla sets down her brush. 

“Hey, you all right?”

“I saw Jordyn’s Instagram a few days ago.”

“Jordyn’s …?”

“Just check it.”

Her friend is quiet, no doubt looking at her phone. Aly waits for some remark that never comes. Instead, McKayla crawls into bed with Aly and curls around her.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

Aly feels her eyes well up. “I guess she’s moved on.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean it’s been long enough. I should have been ready.” Aly sniffs. “Ugh, who is this stupid boy who’s making her meet his stupid family? I don’t even know who he is and I hate him. Do you think he’s on Facebook?”

McKayla’s thumb rubs the inside of her wrist. “Aly, you can’t think about that stuff, OK? You have to focus on going out there and being awesome and winning this.”

“Probably not going to happen. We both know I wouldn’t even be here if Lexie had been healthy and Gabby had made it.” Or if Jordyn had still been competing.

“Aly—”

She’s on a pessimistic roll. “The field’s too strong, anyway. No way I’m going to medal up against Katelyn and everyone else … Mac, I can’t do this.”

McKayla moves back and pushes on her shoulder until Aly shifts to face her. “Aly, shut your face,” McKayla says tenderly. “You’re going to be incredible, OK? Because I say so and I’m your best friend, so it’s true and you have to listen to me.”

“But—”

“No. You have to listen.”

Aly capitulates. “OK, OK.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to tell you how the next few days will go. You’re going to go to the all-around and crush it. Then you’re going to go to event finals and crush it. Then we’re going to party and I’m going to hook you up with that hot Russian girl if it’s the last thing I do in this life. And what are you going to do?”

“Crush it,” Aly says obediently.

McKayla is pleased. “Damn straight,” she pronounces. “Mustafina won’t know what hit her.”

“Um …”

“‘Um’?”

“I keep forgetting to tell you. I actually saw her before qualifiers.”

“Ooh, you did? Did you flirt with her?”

“Kind of? Maybe. I don’t know, I was trying to deal with … this—” Aly waves her phone—”and we ended up hanging out in the training room and icing together.”

“Aly Raisman! How scandalous!”

“Not really, we just talked a bit.”

“Hmm. Is she still with her teammate or whatever?”

Aly thinks back to qualifiers. She hadn’t been able to watch the Russian team much. “I’m not sure.”

“Does she know you like her?”

“Maybe? It’s hard to tell.”

“I bet you anything she knows. I mean, look at her eyes. Those are the eyes of a girl who knows things. Before all this is over, I predict that she’s going to know  _you_. In the biblical sense.”

“Mac oh my  _god_  you are incorrigible,” Aly groans. 

“I calls ‘em like I sees ‘em,” McKayla says, unrepentant. She props herself on one elbow. “You know, it’s too bad I’m straight. If I was gay, nobody else would have a chance with you.”

“Really?”

McKayla nods thoughtfully and sweeps her eyes down Aly’s body. “Yeah. I’d hit that.” She suits action to words by slapping Aly on the ass. Hard. Aly yelps and lunges at her, knocking them both off the bed.

McKayla has to redo her hair after Aly wins the tickle fight, but Aly’s smile is worth it.

*          *          *

With no team competition this year, all Aly has to think about is the all-around and event finals. The competition is intimidatingly stacked with talent. She glances over at her teammate as they wait for AA to begin. Katelyn Ohashi is American gymnastics’ it girl right now. Her recently acquired Amanar is pretty scary but her other events make up for it. She should hit all four routines. And looking at the other top contenders, Aly is not optimistic about going home with hardware. Still, after McKayla’s encouragement, she lets herself hope. Someone could make a mistake; someone could headcase an event. 

Komova’s blonde head bobs into view. She looks grimly determined. Mustafina stands near her, unspeaking. Two of the top contenders … they’ll post monster scores, for sure. Mustafina is near peak health and Komova wants that AA title to make up for London. 

Katelyn shifts from foot to foot. “Fuck, those Russians look like they want to eat us alive.”

“Watch your language,” Aly says automatically. “And don’t worry. You’re going to do great. Four for four, right?”

Katelyn bobs her head as if reassuring herself. “Four for four.”

During the presentation to the judges, Aly glances down the line to check on Katelyn. Instead she sees Aliya’s face. The gymnast is leaning slightly out of line as if to look over at Komova. Her eyes meet Aly’s for a moment before Aliya retreats backward. A few spots down from Aly, Komova stares resolutely ahead.  _Huh_ , Aly thinks. But she has no time to analyze that little exchange. Time for her thirty-second touch. Aly nearly crashes her vault, jogs back to the start of the runway, tries it again. A little better this time. The meet gears up and Aly takes another deep breath, settling further into competition mode. 

She vaults third. Her two-and-a-half twist isn’t as terrifying as Katelyn’s, but Aly still has form issues she can’t quite eradicate. Big hop on the landing. Still, it’s a decent start for her.

A few more women vault, and then Mustafina mounts the podium. Aly perks up with interest. Rumors about Musty training the two-and-a-half again have made it across the pond … fine, so maybe Aly goes looking for those rumors on a fairly regular basis. The Russian gymnast has consistently thrown a DTY in recent competitions and made up her points on bars. If she goes for a DTY here—which is possible given the changes to vault D-scores in the new code—Aly has that much more of a fighting chance. 

Aly isn’t really thinking about points, though. She doesn’t often get to see Mustafina compete in person. With Mustafina’s presence and composure, Aly finds it hard to believe that anyone in the arena could take their eyes off her. She moves to get a better view.

The judges give the signal. Mustafina salutes, pounds down seventy feet of runway in a few seconds, and astonishes everyone by throwing a two-and-a-half twist like she’d never blown out her ACL. The crowd roars for her. Aly’s thrilled too, never mind what that score is going to mean for her personally.

“Nice!!” she says enthusiastically as Mustafina jogs past her. The Russian shoots her a smile, gorgeous eyes crinkling at the corners, before she’s engulfed by her coaches. 

The last gymnast to vault is Katelyn. Everything goes wrong, from a bad block to a sitting finish. Luckily the younger gymnast isn’t injured. Katelyn sets her jaw and goes to the line on the floor to practice bits of her beam routine. Aly gives her a moment to collect herself before coming over to give her a pep talk. Which is another reason Aly is here and others are not: to be the rock that shores up the star. She’d resent Marta for putting her back in that role, but Aly’s too pragmatic. Who knows what will happen in a year with all the new elites coming up. Aly is here right now and that’s what counts. So she does her job.

“Look at me for a moment. OK. Now close your eyes and breathe. Good, like that. Keep breathing.” Aly pauses, waits until some of the tension drains from her teammate’s shoulders. “Sweetie, you got this, no question. You’ve practiced this a million times and I know you’re going to nail it. Nothing can touch you on that beam.”

Katelyn looks up at her seriously. “You think I still have a chance?”

“I think you’re Superwoman.” Aly hugs Katelyn warmly, then slaps her on the shoulder. “All right. Back to work, slacker.” 

She turns away. Mustafina’s practicing within earshot. Aly wishes the Russian good luck. 

“You too,” Mustafina says.

Only one of their wishes comes true.

Beam goes by in a blur. The judges are scoring harshly today and Aly knows she missed a few connections. She tries not to worry about it; score-watching can be detrimental to her focus.

They rotate to bars, where Viktoria Komova posts a sky-high score in short order. Komova blows the other gymnasts out of the water preemptively with her clean lines and high difficulty. She sticks a double twisting double back and punches a fist in the air. 

Aly mounts the podium soon after. She’s worked hard on her routine but there’s no way she can follow that act. Instead she focuses on her form and on hitting those handstands. She’s doing fairly well until disaster strikes. 

The toe-on Shaposh is something she’s done hundreds of times in the gym, but it’s not instinctive like tumbling elements are for her. She miscalculates the angle to the high bar by a few vital degrees. There’s an endless moment where she feels herself falling, when the failure hasn’t set in and all she feels is shock, and then she lands hard. The wind goes out of her in time with the crowd’s hushed exhalation. The arena is abruptly quiet.

She gets up, fighting for breath and composure with all eyes on her. No point in chalking as a delaying tactic … better to get this over with. Aly jumps and catches the bar again in stolid determination.

Nobody says much to her after she gets off the podium. After her score is announced and the cameras leave her alone, Aly puts on her warmups and sits down. She watches blankly as Larisa Iordache floats over the bars like she’s not even human. She’s distantly aware of the battle for the top three spots, but it’s hard to care now that she’s likely out of the running.

All she’d wanted was a chance to prove herself. That Tokyo and London were flukes; that she is a world-class all-around gymnast. And somehow all of that is mixed up with Jordyn.

Memories of London come flooding in. The surprise of qualifying for AA, the wrenching realization of what that meant for Jordyn, Jordyn cheering her on from the stands despite her disappointment … the memories of their first night and all the other nights after that. Coming home with medals and the girl she loved; knowing that was enough.

Knowing doesn’t last sometimes.

*    *    *

Mustafina is brilliant on bars and floor, of course. Aly can appreciate those performances even through a haze of disappointment. She and Katelyn do their best on floor exercise, but their falls mean that no Americans will stand on the podium tonight. When the board updates after the last competitor in their rotation is done, the Russian and Romanian camps go crazy. 

Aly makes the rounds on autopilot and hugs everyone. Iordache squeaks “Thank you!” in adorably accented English. Komova beams with happiness, as befitting a gold medalist. Mustafina seems subdued when Aly congratulates her on winning the bronze. Later, Aly sees the two Russians exchange a cursory hug and notices the way they avoid eye contact. She might wonder about that if she had the time and the energy. But no, they have to do media before they can leave the stadium to lick their wounds. Some horrible reporter says to Aly, “You’re the reigning Olympic champions, yet you failed to defend the all-around title. How does that make you feel?”

Aly refrains from strangling the woman or pointing out that Gabby isn’t even here. Instead she drones something about being disappointed but coming back stronger for event finals. She can’t wait to leave.

*   *   *

McKayla talks her into watching some Netflix after her shower as a distraction. Aly doesn’t have the mental energy to argue. She knows her friend’s intentions are good. After the second episode of whatever teen drama they’re watching ends, she says, “I’m sorry, Mac, I think I’m gonna take a walk.”

“Now? But it’s cold out. And you’ll have to put on real pants!”

“Sorry. I just need some time.”

McKayla turns over and rests her head on Aly’s shoulder. “OK. But I want you to know I’m proud of you. You kicked ass out there today.”

“Didn’t exactly crush it, though.”

“You will on Sunday. So hurry back, you need your sleep.”

The city center is bustling on a Friday night. Aly is content to be lost in the crowd. She walks aimlessly for a few blocks in the cold, eventually stopping on a corner by one of the innumerable hotels to pull out her phone. Maybe there’s a coffee shop or restaurant around where she can watch the crowds pass her by and not think about anything. 

A light tap on her shoulder startles her. Aly looks up, hoping she’s not about to be accosted by some tourist wanting her autograph.

Aliya is barely recognizable in a hoodie and jeans with her hair down. “American, you lost?”

For a second Aly thinks the Russian girl is making a pun in reference to today. But there’s no trace of mockery on Aliya’s tired face. 

“Maybe a little,” Aly says, mustering a smile for her. “Help me figure it out?”

Aliya moves closer and peers down at Aly’s phone. She smells like clean hair and hotel soap. “We go here,” she says. “Four stars.”

Aly’s too surprised that Aliya is apparently coming with her to even notice what location the other girl chooses. She follows Aliya down an unpronounceable street. They walk side by side for a block in silence. Aly should probably be appreciating the elegant architecture, but  she’s too busy wondering why she now has a companion. “So, are you, like, following me now or something?”

Aliya looks puzzled. “We go to same place.”

“No, I was making a joke. I was talking about back there. Were you out walking too or was that your hotel?”

“Oh. Yes, my hotel. I am in lobby calling friend when I see you. Think you look like someone need to buy you drink. And also I am wanting to be alone.”

“Wait. You’re going to buy me a drink and then ditch me?”

“What is ditch?”

“It means to leave someone. Like abandoning them.”

Aliya mouths the word  _ditch_  to herself as if storing it for future reference. “No, I not do that. I can be alone with you. Oh, here it is.”

Aly stops. Despite her emotional exhaustion and confusion (Is this a date? What does  _I can be alone with you_  mean?), she has to laugh. “Oh my god. I cannot believe this. Are you messing with me?”

“What?”

“We come all the way to Antwerp and you bring me to  _Boston Steakhouse_?”

“It has four stars!” 

Laughing feels good, even though Aliya clearly thinks Aly’s gone mad. Eventually Aly regains most of her composure and says, “Come on, I’ll explain when we get inside, ha ha.”

“No, no. We go to another one.” Aliya looks kind of pissed.

“No, really, it’s OK,” Aly insists. She explains about being from Boston. But Aliya will not be deterred. She leads them down the street, head held at a regal tilt. They pass several restaurants and bars until one apparently meets Aliya’s stringent standards. The two girls settle at a table in the corner near the window. Aliya orders for them.

“What kind vodka you have?” she asks the waitress.

“Oh, uh, I can’t actually have a  _drink_  drink,” Aly starts. Aliya cuts her off.

“No, you will like.” Aliya looks at the waitress, who promptly rattles off some names that don’t mean anything to Aly. Like most elite gymnasts, Aly doesn’t drink. Never mind that she’s underage in the US, though not here—the empty calories and dehydration aren’t good for her. But Aliya confidently makes a selection: a drink for Aly (she doesn’t catch the name) and tea for herself. After the waitress is gone, Aliya decrees, “You don’t compete tomorrow, so drink tonight is OK.”

Mihai would have a fit if he knew. So would Marta. Neither of them are as pretty as Aliya. “OK, if you say so. You’re in charge.” 

Aliya smirks, good humor restored, and retrieves her phone from a pocket. Aly gets hers out too and they text in companionable silence. Aly sneaks a glance at the other girl from time to time. It’s weird how comfortable Aly feels, out for drinks in a strange city with a friend she barely knows. The fact that Aliya has chosen to spend her precious free time with Aly is flattering. If odd, considering how she’d reacted when Mihai had found them together in the training room.

“Won’t your team wonder where you are?”

Aliya is still texting. “No. I say I am tired, leave alone. Tanya goes out tonight also.”

“Doesn’t she have vault finals tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

A woman of few words. Aly’s amused.

Their drinks arrive and Aly takes a cautious sip. The cocktail is sweeter than she expected. “This is interesting. What’s it called?”

“Moscow Mule.”

“Is this to make up for taking me to that steakhouse? You’re having me try something Russian?”

“Russian vodka, American drink. Strong but sweet. I think you like sweet things, yes?”

Aly can already feel the effects of the alcohol on her tired body. She smiles lazily. “Yeah. I do. This was a good guess.”

Quiet descends on their table again as they sip their drinks and look out the window at the bustle of Antwerp’s nightlife. Aly feels pleasantly remote from everything. Across from her, Aliya looks happier than she had earlier tonight. Perhaps she too is content to sit and simply  _be_  without regrets. 

The buzz of Aly’s phone breaks the mood. Aly blinks at the screen, trying to make the letters align. _Hey just wanted to say good job today. I watched some of the meet. Too bad about the fall, you were amazing!!_

Aly doesn’t know what to say. This is the first text Jordyn’s sent her in months and she feels the shock of it throughout her entire body. She has to compose and delete several messages before settling on a simple  _Thanks :)_

_Good luck in EF this weekend! We’re all rooting for you_

We? Who the fuck is  _we_? It’s an unfair question; surely Jordyn meant her family. But a boy casts a shadow over Jordyn’s words all the same, turning them from encouragement into a taunt.

“Alexandra? Something is wrong?”

She doesn’t feel like replying to either girl at the moment. Aly trades her phone for her drink and drains the remaining third. Aliya’s brows rise. 

“Your coach?”

“No. My ex. As if today couldn’t get any worse.” As if she needed another reminder that she wasn’t good enough. She stands. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I pay first,” Aliya says gently. 

Aly sits back down. “Oh. Right.”

The wait for the check is interminable. Aly’s head throbs. The cold air is a relief when they finally get outside. She puts her head down against the wind and starts walking, wobbling a little.

“Aly, wait.”

The nickname makes her stop. Aly must look as miserable as she feels. Aliya’s face softens. “Come here,” she says, and draws Aly into a tight hug right in the middle of the sidewalk. The crowd of passers-by parts around them seamlessly like streamwater around a rock. Aly closes her eyes and wishes she could shut out the entire world beyond the circle of Aliya’s arms.

*   *   *

Aliya keeps one arm around her as they walk. Aly doesn’t complain. She’s not feeling too steady right now. Her body, unused to hard liquor, isn’t happy about the sudden onslaught she’s just subjected it to. 

Down a side street, a fountain catches her eye. She always takes a few photos when she travels, but she hasn’t taken any of Antwerp yet. Her mom will want to see the city’s eclectic architecture. “Do you mind?” she asks Aliya. 

The fountain is set in the middle of a nearly-deserted square. A couple walk hand-in-hand away from the fountain as a cyclist pedals past. Aly waits for them to leave before she takes a few pictures. For a moment she watches jets of water spurt around the limbs of gods and horses. Light patterns play on the nearby buildings, making her head spin further.

She carefully turns around. Aliya is leaning against a brick wall waiting for her. Her head is tipped back and her eyes are fixed on the night sky. Aly’s eyes trace the exquisite length of her throat, white in the moonlight. In that moment, she  _wants_. She isn’t sure what. To have another chance at this day. To find consolation. 

Aliya regards her now, gaze as enigmatic as ever. Aly feels like she’s floating outside of herself. Her body acts of its own volition. Aly takes one step forward and another, thinking only to do what she’d once thought of doing on another moonlit night in the Olympic Village. But her feet betray her and she stumbles forward, falling for the second time that day. Aliya catches her by the upper arms and Aly grabs the other girl by the waist.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” she says. 

“I think Americans not hold their liquor very well.”

Aly sighs ruefully. “This really has not been my week.”

“Sunday is next week,” Aliya points out, still propping her up. “You will win gold next week.”

“You really think so?”

The other gymnast grins. Her thumbs rub Aly’s biceps reassuringly. “I know things.”

Looking into those eyes, Aly can believe it. She’s so close to Aliya that she can see the brown and gold flecks in her irises and feel her breath when Aliya exhales. Perhaps the alcohol emboldens her. Maybe it’s Aliya’s certainty or merely her proximity. Aly throws caution to the wind and presses her lips to Aliya’s.

That contact sends a shockwave of desire surging through Aly, melting the numbness at her core. What she wants isn’t a question any more. Between Aliya’s warmth and the vodka, her body is on fire. After a moment Aliya’s lips part under the pressure of Aly’s tongue. She tastes like raspberry tea and honey and summer nights. The skin at her waist is silky smooth where Aly’s fingers rest.

The kiss is all too brief. Aly’s headache is becoming increasingly worse and she has to break away and rub her forehead. Damn, she really should have drunk more water. 

Aliya’s eyes drift open. Aly still can’t read her expression. She wants to kiss Aliya again, taste her more deeply, but her temples are throbbing so painfully that she can barely see. Aly bends over. “Uhhh … I don’t feel too good.”

For a moment Aliya doesn’t respond. Then she comes to Aly’s side and wedges an arm under Aly’s shoulder. She says briskly, “Hotel is not far. Walk slow, American, don’t make mess on my shoes.”

They make it to Aly’s hotel without further incident. Aliya says to her, “Drink water. Sleep. You will be fine in morning.”

“Thanks,” Aly says blearily. “God, I’m so sorry. I really shouldn’t drink when I’m this wiped out.”

“Is OK.”

She hesitates. “Aliya—”

“I ditch you now,” Aliya announces.

Whatever apology or invitation Aly is trying to formulate is lost in the ghost of a laugh. “Get me drunk and kick me to the curb, huh? I see how it is.”

A hint of a smile plays around Aliya’s lips. “Good night, Alexandra.” 

“Good night,” Aly says wistfully. “Aliya?”

“Yes?”

“I had a good time.”

Aliya inclines her head gracefully, turns on her heel, and walks away. Despite her pounding headache, Aly watches Aliya until she disappears into the crowd.  

_I think you like sweet things, yes?_

_Yeah. I do._


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no going back now.

“Hey, Mustafina, get off your lazy ass. We’ve got a party to go to!”

Not bothering to lift her eyes from her phone, Aliya extends her middle finger in Tanya’s general direction.

“Oh, don’t be like that. Come on, we’re done with event finals and now it’s time to celebrate!”

“I just want to sleep.”

“You can sleep on the plane tomorrow, you big baby. This party’s going to be awesome. You’ll love it once you get there.”

Aliya rests her head against the chair back and looks wearily at her roommate. “Have you ever met a party you  _didn’t_  like?”

Tanya plops down on her lap. “No, because parties love me!” She taps Aliya’s nose with a finger. “Have  _you_  ever met a fit of the sulks you didn’t like? That’s what I thought. Come with me, it’ll be good for you.”

Aliya sighs. Tatiana Nabieva is one of the few people on the Russian national team who isn’t intimidated by the Mustafina death glare. She’s fully capable of bodily dragging Aliya to attend whatever festivities she desires. “Who’s going to be there?” she asks, resigned. 

Tanya pops up. “Oh my god, the German men’s team, of course. Fabien, Marcel, Phillip … so hot!”

“Anyone else?”

“Uh, the Ukrainian guys, some Italians, the usual. And some ladies. I heard Seitz talking about it after the all-around and a couple of the girls looked interested. We’ll divide and conquer!”

Aliya tries to sound casual. “Is anyone from our team going?” She still hasn’t told Tanya that she and Vika aren’t together. She’s pretty sure Tanya knows something’s up, though.

“The boys are out clubbing. Grishina wouldn’t so I didn’t even bother asking her. Komova said she might, but she hasn’t been answering my texts. Guess she’s off celebrating by herself instead.” 

Well. If her ex isn’t attending, Aliya might actually have some fun. She doesn’t resent Vika for her success this weekend, exactly. In fact she would have gladly celebrated Vika’s all-around and uneven bars gold with her—if things had been different. If Vika had made the right choice a week ago. Her lip curls at the thought of Vika off “celebrating” with her boyfriend and doing god knows what.

The hell with her ex. Aliya suddenly wants to get dressed to the nines, seduce some stranger, and fuck her so hard the entire city hears them scream. “Her loss,” Aliya says coldly. “Give me twenty minutes.”

*  *  *

They take a cab to the Zurenborg district. The old house is a gorgeous art deco concoction, all brick and arches and high narrow windows. Light spills from the door as guests hurry in.

Tanya lets out a low whistle. “Damn, nice place. Those Germans have got the hook-up.”

Aliya fishes her compact out of her purse and checks her war paint. Ready to kill. “Let’s do this.”

Inside the house, gymnasts mill about holding plastic cups. Some are making desultory attempts at conversation in a few different languages. Nobody appears to be having extraordinary amounts of fun. Aliya lifts her chin and surveys the scene. 

“Tanya,” she says under her breath.

“What?”

“You said this would be a  _good_  party.” 

“We haven’t found the booze yet.”

They drift toward the kitchen, looking at the artwork and knick-knacks on display and nodding at a few familiar faces. A hand lands on Aliya’s arm and she turns. She feels a momentary pang of disappointment when she sees Elisabeth Seitz grinning at her, and then wonders who she’d been expecting. 

“Hey, great job at event finals today!” the German gymnast says in Russian. “Thanks for coming!”

“Thank you. You have a beautiful house.”

“I wish it were mine. Friend of a friend’s. Here, I’ll show you where the food and drinks are.”

The food isn’t bad. The beer is better. Or so Tanya claims. Aliya’s more of a hard liquor fan. Still, she accepts a plastic cup just to have something to hold when she’s done with her plate. They circulate throughout the house, winding up in a sitting room being used by some of the Ukrainian men—for sitting, appropriately enough. Tanya clearly thinks this is an ideal spot for some flirtation. Aliya rolls her eyes and wanders off to explore the house. Maybe someone’s having fun off in some corner.

Her investigation yields nothing but more polite nods and a trash can for her empty plate. Aliya spends a few moments in the restroom touching up already flawless makeup for lack of anything better to do. She examines herself in the mirror. Deep purple sheath, dramatic eyeliner, killer shoes—she looks damn good. She’s pretty sure that’s not lost on the men in the house, but they’re not important, and none of the women here seem to swing her way. Aliya checks the time on her phone and wonders how soon she can persuade Tanya to leave and find a club somewhere, maybe meet up with the men’s team.

She comes out of the restroom in time to see the lights flick off in the big room down the hall. 

“Let’s get this party started, bitches!”

Loud, overconfident, American accent. Aliya almost turns the other way before she hears another voice.

“Mac, you’re gonna have to show me how to do that dance again.” 

Aliya hesitates, then goes to peek around the doorframe. A few Americans are standing around inside. Most of them look familiar. One in particular. Aly Raisman is watching McKayla Maroney fiddle with an iPod dock. Her compact, sturdy frame is softened by a dove-gray dress and the long hair spilling over her shoulders. When she offers some joking advice to Maroney, her smile flashes brightly in the light of the single lamp on the table. She looks very different from the lonely girl who’d kissed Aliya in the moonlight two nights ago. 

Aliya’s suspected for a while now that the American has a crush on her. For her part, she still isn’t sure why she’d gone out to talk to Aly that night. Easy enough to stay in the hotel lobby and talk to her friend back home for a few more minutes, let the other gymnast go on her way. She had her own shit to deal with. Instead she’d bought Aly a drink, walked her home … let Aly kiss her. 

That kiss. Unexpected but not offensive, exactly … the pure need had simply been startling. And to her surprise she had felt herself responding to it, coming perilously close to falling over the edge of her own need. She remembers the familiar sadness lurking behind Aly’s eyes and thinks that maybe they have more than gymnastics in common. 

Maroney’s settled on a song. Most of the others have started dancing in the middle of the room. Maroney pulls Aly over to the edge and stands in front of her to demonstrate some dance moves. The vault champion has natural rhythm and fluidity of movement, but Aly’s attempts are awkward and choppy. The American emphasis on power and difficulty at the expense of grace and dance seems so strange to Aliya. She can’t imagine not being able to move to music.

Aly throws her arms in the air in apparent defeat and launches into some sort of simplistic, ridiculous choreography that makes Maroney laugh. Some of the US gymnasts laugh too and start doing it with her. Aliya shakes her head at their antics and is about to turn away when Maroney turns and spots her.

“Oh my god! It’s Mustafina!” Maroney squeals. She grabs Aly by the arm and hauls her up to Aliya. “Aliya, hi!” 

“Hello,” Aliya replies politely, not sure what she’s done to merit such an enthusiastic greeting from someone she barely knows.

“Hey, you know Aly, don’t you? She was wondering if you wanted to dance.”

“Mac!!” Aly says out of the corner of her mouth. 

“Shush,” Maroney says. She smiles sweetly at Aliya. “Please say yes. We were really hoping you’d be here.”

Is it possible that Aly’s told her teammate about their encounter?  _So guess what I did the other night? Got drunk on a shamefully tiny amount of vodka and tongued a Russian! How was your weekend?_

If Maroney does know, she seems to approve, oddly enough. This could be interesting at the very least. “Yes, I dance,” Aliya says. 

“Great! Hey, somebody come help me pick another song.” McKayla beats a hasty retreat, leaving Aliya and Aly alone in the corner. Aly can’t meet her eyes.  It’s difficult to tell in the dim lighting and with Aly’s complexion, but Aliya’s pretty sure that Aly’s blushing. 

“Congratulations on medal,” Aliya says, choosing not to bring up the kiss. She hasn’t seen the American since their semi-date, as they haven’t shared any event finals, but she heard that Aly placed in floor finals earlier today.

“Oh, thank you. And you too. I saw your bars routine, it was amazing.”

“Thank you.”

Aly seems on the verge of saying something. Aliya waits. Then the music kicks in. Aly asks diffidently, “Do you want to dance?”

After about twenty seconds of silent, awkward swaying, Aliya stops and looks at Aly.

“American, someone need teach you how to move.”

“Oh god, I know, I dance like a white girl. Would you … would you help me?”

Aliya chews on her bottom lip. This could be a monumental task. Then again, it’s not like she’s found anything better to do at this party. There are worse things than hanging out with a pretty girl. And if this doesn’t go anywhere, she can always leave and find that club by herself. “You do what I say?”

“Yes. Anything you say.”

“OK. I try teach you. First, stand up like so, see? Be light. Americans, clomp, clomp— _nyet_. Light like Russians. Yes?”

“OK …”

“Yes?”

“Yes, light, I can try, I mean, I can be light.”

Aliya purses her lips to avoid smiling. “Don’t think so hard, Raisman, you hurt something.”

Aly giggles nervously at that. Aliya looks over her shoulder and sees that McKayla has everyone circled up for a dance-off. No one is paying attention to them. Aliya moves closer and taps Aly’s hip with a finger. “Movement come from here. And here—” pointing to Aly’s abs. “Not arms all in air. Feel music.” She demonstrates. Aly swallows and attempts to mimic her. 

“Better. This first—” She touches Aly’s hip again. The American stiffens slightly. “Move leg, go like that.”

Aly shakes her head. “I’m so bad at this.”

“Is OK. Try again.”

The American scowls in earnest concentration as she attempts the footwork. Aliya stifles another smile and repeats, “Light. Move from here.” Her hand brushes Aly’s side. Aly’s breath hitches ever so slightly before she looks up at Aliya. After a moment, Aliya removes her hand.

She works Aly through a few songs. The American is breathing hard by the end. Aliya surveys her handiwork. “Is better,” she says judiciously. 

“Holy crap, that’s hard,” Aly says. She fans herself.

“You want go outside?” 

“Sure, I need to cool off. Let me get my stuff first.”

 * * *

The back door Aliya noticed earlier during her exploration leads to a walled garden. The garden is tiny but has room enough for a small bench and a pedestal fountain. Aliya folds her arms against the freezing air and watches the water burbling in the bowl of the fountain. It’s peaceful, which is exactly what she doesn’t want to feel right now.

Aliya can sense the American watching her. “You had a good competition, huh?” Aly says. 

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do when you get home?” 

“Train, eat, sleep. Same always.”

“Yeah, me too. Are you competing again this year?”

Aliya shrugs and inches closer to Aly, who is still radiating heat. “Maybe. Coaches decide soon.”

“You did so well this weekend, they have to use you again. I still can’t believe you vaulted an Amanar. And it’s so cool that you and Viktoria got medals together in the all-around.”

Aliya smiles tightly. The stone bench is ice-cold underneath her and the wind leeches warmth from her fingers. She will not shiver; she is Russian to the bone.

But Aly is watching her closely. “Are you warm enough?”

“I not cold,” Aliya scoffs, just as the wind picks up. Goosebumps prickle her skin and give the lie to her words.

Aly’s reply is to pick up her jacket and settle it around Aliya’s shoulders. Aliya parts her lips to protest, but Aly has already changed the subject. “Do you think you’ll make it to Rio?”

“I …” A gust of wind kicks up and Aliya decides to drop the jacket issue. “Not know. I train hard. Maybe, maybe not.” She thinks of all the others waiting for their chance. Shelgunova and Kharenkova. More besides. And Vika, of course. When Vika hits, she’s better than Aliya. _When_  she hits. It’s incredible that she did so well during this competition, considering how distracted she’s been by her boyfriend. Anger rears its ugly head and Aliya pushes it down. She’s here to have fun, goddamn it. 

And to have other things. 

“I’m going to try for Rio too. I hope we both make it. I love seeing you. Compete, I mean.” 

Aliya doesn’t miss how Aly’s eyes keep dropping to Aliya’s mouth. Which is problematic. It’s not that Aliya doesn’t enjoy Aly’s company. She does. Aly’s easy to be around despite the language and cultural barriers. The thing is, Aliya likes blonde Russian spitfires. She doesn’t like brunettes, she doesn’t like Americans, and she certainly doesn’t like sweet, thoughtful girls with pretty brown eyes. Girls who are still carrying a torch for their ex-girlfriends.

Aly Raisman is not at all what she’d been picturing for rebound sex. 

“Do you mind if I take a picture with you?” Aly asks shyly.

“Mmm. Not good idea.”

“Please? They’ll never believe me back home otherwise.”

“Believe … ?”

“That, um, that I hung out with you and you didn’t bite my head off.”

Aliya thinks about how this will be the talk of her team if any photos get back to them. Mustafina and an American. Mustafina and a girl who isn’t Vika. On second thought, maybe that’s exactly what she wants.

“OK,” Aliya says. She shifts closer to Aly and the American girl puts an arm around her waist. They grin at the camera, make duck faces, lean their heads together like they’re good friends. Neither of them move away after Aly takes three pictures. Aliya tells herself it’s for warmth.

“Mind if I put one of these on the internet?”

“What you choose?”

Aly shows her the picture. Aliya studies Aly’s grin and her own enigmatic smile, the way their hair is tangled together by the breeze, the relaxed body language. “This not bad.”

Aly fiddles with her phone, trying out filters on the photo. Aliya supervises. Eventually they agree on an edited version of the photo. Aly posts it. “Damn, we look good. The fans are going to love this … yep, I’m already getting a ton of likes. You actually have a bunch of American fans, did you know that?”

“Americans like Russian?”

Aly turns her head and Aliya realizes exactly how close they are to each other. The length of Aly’s thigh is warm against hers and their noses are inches apart. “Yes,” Aly breathes, “Americans like Russian.”

She feels her heartrate accelerate suddenly. Which is ridiculous, because she doesn’t like this girl like that. “Because Russia better.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“Know.”

“I’m pretty sure our technique is flawless.”

“Russian technique better.”

“We’ll see about that.” Aly’s closing the gap between them, and so is Aliya, fuck, when did that happen, when did she make that decision—

The door to the house opens abruptly. They jump apart. Whoever it is says, “Oh god, sorry, sorry,” and closes the door.

Aliya stares blankly ahead.  _Shit. This evening is a damned trainwreck._

When she doesn’t immediately turn back to Aly, the American clears her throat and tucks her hair behind an ear. “Um. Are you thirsty at all? I could get us some drinks.”

Aliya needs a moment by herself. “Yes, thank you.”

“No problem. I’ll be right back.” Aly’s hand hovers over and then lightly squeezes Aliya’s knee. “Don’t go anywhere, OK?”

The bench is colder without Aly. Aliya pulls the jacket tighter around herself. What the hell is she doing? Aliya can’t keep leading Aly on. Even if the attention is flattering to Aliya’s wounded ego. Even if the American is a really good kisser and would probably look even better out of that dress than she does in it. It’s oddly tempting, but no, she’s not Aliya’s type … too gentle, too nice, too much baggage. She needs to friend-zone Aly, get out of here, and find someone she can use and leave behind without a second thought. 

* * *

When she comes inside, she hears familiar voices and follows them into the kitchen. Aly is holding two cups and is wearing a slightly hunted expression, probably because Tanya’s got her backed up against the counter and is peppering her with questions. 

“You like parties?”

“Yeah, I guess, but I don’t have time for them.”

“You no have boyfriend?”

“No, I don’t have time for that either.”

“You have girlfriend?”

Aly flushes. “Uh, no …”

Tanya blatantly gives her the elevator eyes. “Pretty girl like you? Is too bad. You come with me, we make time, eh?”

Aliya’s heard enough. While Tanya usually sticks to men, she’s not adverse to messing with girls’ heads on occasion, and that never ends well. If Tanya had fixated on any other American, Aliya wouldn’t butt in. But this girl is different. Aly is  _her_  American. Whatever that means. Aliya comes to stand right beside Aly, takes a cup from her, and settles an arm behind her on the counter. “Nabieva, don’t you have someplace else to be?” 

“I’m just talking to my new friend here. What’s the big deal?”

“Stop it, Tanya. You don’t even like girls.”

Tanya eyes Aly again. “This one’s pretty cute. Maybe I feel like experimenting tonight.” 

“Leave her alone, all right? I need to talk to her about something, she just went to get us drinks before you waylaid her.” Sometimes it seems like the entire Russian team is plotting together to steal the people she likes.

“Uh, guys? Is something wrong?” Aly says.

“I didn’t waylay her. Can’t two people have a conversation at a party?”

Aliya says, irritated, “She was already having a conversation. With me.”

“Wow. Someone’s possessive.”

“And someone’s bored. What, did all the Ukrainians turn you down? You want to talk to an American, pick the vaulting robot.” Aliya jerks her head toward the noisiest corner of the living room where Maroney’s holding court.

Tanya looks confused. “What’s gotten into you, Alka? Calling dibs on Americans? If Vika hears …”

The last thing Aliya wants to hear is her ex’s name. She feels her temper rising rapidly. “Vika can go fuck herself for all I care,” Aliya snaps. 

“Guys?”

“Alka, you know she just made a mistake, she still loves y—”

“You know what, you can go fuck yourself too. You don’t know anything about that so just shut the hell up, all right?”

Tanya raises her hands and turns away. “Fine. Whatever. God.”

Aliya glares daggers at her friend’s retreating back. Next to her, Aly says in a tiny voice, “Are you OK?”

“Fine,” Aliya growls. She shucks the jacket off and presses it into Aly’s hands. “I need restroom.”

She stares at herself in the mirror. A hard-eyed young woman looks back at her. This night has not turned out the way she’d planned. Aliya blows out a breath and leaves. She needs to say goodbye to Aly, make some excuse, and get out of here. 

Aly isn’t in the kitchen any more. Aliya wanders the house until she finds Aly and Maroney together in a side room. She can’t hear the conversation but the body language is clear: Aly is confused, Maroney is trying to convince her of something. Aly blushes once. This time, Aliya turns and walks off before Maroney can notice her. Probably better to leave without a goodbye. She’s had enough drama for one night.

But no, apparently not. She comes out of the bedroom where everyone’s left their purses and things and catches movement at the edge of her peripheral vision. Down at the very end of the dark hallway, two figures stand intertwined. His shirt is partly unbuttoned and her hair is messy; her hands are working their way down from his abs and he’s cupping her ass … oh god, this isn’t real, this isn’t happening, that can’t be who she thinks it is …

No. It is happening. They’ve come to the party after all: the boy Vika chose over her, the person who gets to put his big meaty hands all over the love of her life. And the girl she fought so hard to win, who right at this moment has her tongue in Nikita’s mouth.

She’s going to fucking kill them both and burn down this entire house.

Someone touches her elbow. “Aliya?” 

Aliya whirls around to see Aly blinking at her in concern. “Are you OK? You kind of disappeared on me. I wanted to see if you were all right.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees movement. Whether Nikita and Vika are moving toward them or into an unused bedroom, she does not know. Rage blinds her. She has only one course of action left. She grabs the American, pushes her into the wall, and kisses her as passionately as she knows how.

Aly makes a startled noise. Aliya silences her with her tongue. She channels her anger, biting the girl’s lip hard, leaving Aly gasping for breath before kissing her roughly again and again. Aliya’s hands slide over curves and hipbones like they’ve been wanting to all night. When she lifts the hem of Aly’s dress and runs a hand slowly up her bare thigh, Aly whimpers.

“Please,” she says against Aliya’s lips.

Aliya leans over to say something in Aly’s ear. Her hand slides higher and Aly shudders. “You will come to hotel,” Aliya says. It’s not a question.

“Yes,” Aly says breathlessly. “God, yes.”

Aliya kisses her once more, leaving the girl’s mouth swollen and bruised, and takes her by the hand. She tows Aly out toward the door. Past Seitz, past Maroney, past Tanya, past half the guests at the party. She doesn’t see Vika or Nikita, but everyone sees her and Aly—and in the end, it is the same thing.

She hails a cab for them. As they pull away, Aly looks over her shoulder at the house. Aliya stares straight ahead. There’s no going back now.


	5. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aly and Aliya face their choices.

Aliya’s grip on her hand is painful. Aly barely registers it, what with the shock of cold evening air, and before that McKayla’s expression seen in passing, like her wingman had gotten her more than they’d bargained for. And before  _that_ , the hallway and Aliya’s hands and  _oh god_. Aly’s face is still hot when the cab pulls up and Aliya stuffs her into it.

They say nothing to each other on the ride to the hotel. Aly stares out the window. _I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,_  she thinks. Despite McKayla’s assurances, she’d only hoped for flirtation tonight, maybe some making out. Anything to distract herself.

Two more texts from Jordyn wait unanswered in her phone.  _Really sorry about contacting you out of the blue the other day. Family watched the AA broadcast & literally wouldn’t leave me alone till I texted you. _

_You were amazing in floor finals btw. Still your biggest fan._

She wonders if Jordyn saw the picture she’d posted with Aliya. A tiny hateful part of her hopes that Jo has and that she feels jealous and left out, like Aly felt when she’d heard about Jo’s boyfriend. 

But now isn’t the time to think about her ex. She’s about to do it with a near-stranger in an Antwerp hotel room and she isn’t exactly mentally prepared.

Aly sneaks a peek at Aliya’s profile. The Russian girl looks stern, almost forbidding. And beyond gorgeous. She’s always been arrestingly pretty in a skintight leo, but good Lord, the sight of Aliya Mustafina in a slinky dress with her hair down would give any girl a lady boner. Even the straight ones. The thought of taking that dress off makes Aly’s mouth go dry. And yet the fact remains that she has no idea why Aliya’s suddenly escalated their relationship. She likes this girl a lot, way more than she should or ever intended to, and she feels very nervous about what’s going to happen. Aly reminds herself that Jordyn never had any complaints when they were together. Her relationship with Jo had been comfortable and familiar, though. Aliya is an unknown quantity.

They enter the hotel elevator and Aly prepares herself for a continuation of the silent cab ride. But Aliya backs her into the wall as soon as the doors close. There’s no getting-to-know-you period after what’s already passed between them. Aliya’s mouth is warm and hungry and Aly’s stomach flip-flops. No one’s ever kissed her quite like this before, abrupt and commanding. Aliya’s hands move against her back to slide down Aly’s sides. Thumbs catch on her hipbones and stroke downward deliberately. An overwhelming wave of desire washes over Aly. She wonders distantly if Aliya plans to take her right here—and then the elevator’s incongruous chime sounds and the doors slide open. 

Aliya turns her head to shoot death rays at the unwelcome interruption: some idiot tourist with an ice bucket, who gapes at them until Aliya slaps the control panel. The doors shut on the man’s slack-jawed expression. Aliya looks up at the floor indicator and moves away. “We arrive soon,” she says, perfectly calm. Aly holds onto the handrail and tries not to hyperventilate. _Holy fuck,_  is all she can think.

The coast is clear when they get to Aliya’s floor. Aliya swipes her room key, looking back to make sure no Russian coaches or team members pop out from another room, and lets Aly enter first. Aly looks around, feeling jittery. The room is a mess—leos, warm-ups, makeup, and tubes of sparkly hair gel are strewn everywhere. The bed is unmade. This isn’t like the movies. But then, this isn’t a movie. This is really happening.

She doesn’t realize that Aliya’s come up behind her until she feels lips on her neck, once, twice. Aly shivers with anticipation and sheer nerves.

“You wear too many clothes, American,” Aliya growls. 

Aly summons up all her bravado and replies, “Then why don’t you do something about it?”

Aliya goes silent for a second. “I will,” she finally breathes into her ear, and yanks. Hard. She flings the jacket aside and kisses and nibbles her way up Aly’s neck. Aly leans into Aliya, angling her head. The other girl bites her earlobe before taking it into her mouth. Aly inhales sharply, smelling Aliya’s dark perfume and feeling the heat of Aliya’s body against hers. Aliya’s hands slide over Aly’s stomach and dip suddenly lower, teasing and stroking and holy  _shit_  this is happening way faster than she thought it would, and now Aliya’s lips are at the base of her neck as she works on unzipping Aly’s dress. She pulls it off unceremoniously and makes equally quick work of Aly’s bra. She takes Aly by the elbow, spins her, looks her up and down for a moment. Aly feels the sweep of those hooded eyes like a physical touch and shivers. She feels very, very naked in this moment. 

Aliya pulls Aly into a crushing embrace and resumes her attack on Aly’s lips. Aly can feel her heart hammering so hard she thinks it might explode. She can’t quite focus on anything except for how much she wants Aliya. And yet there’s a peremptory quality to Aliya’s movements that’s increasingly noticeable. She tries to reach around for Aliya’s zipper and Aliya catches her wrists none too gently, grips Aly’s forearms hard and slams her into the wall. Pain starbursts behind her eyes and Aly flashes back to kissing Aliya by the fountain two days ago. Then, Aliya had been yielding. Now she is impatient, demanding. Aly is simultaneously turned on and oddly uneasy. But it’s difficult to think with Aliya’s mouth hot and insistent against hers. 

Aliya shoves Aly down on the bed forcefully. Aly drags herself backward, trying to catch her breath while she has an opportunity. And then Aliya unzips her own dress and lets it drop. Aly’s eyes go wide. Leotards have never hidden much, but seeing what’s underneath is a whole different story. Aliya doesn’t give her time to appreciate the view, though. She moves onto the bed like a stalking lioness, all lean muscle and laser focus, eyes locked onto Aly’s. Aly feels a jolt of adrenaline in the pit of her stomach as Aliya crawls up over her legs. _Oh my god, this is actually happening._  Aly wants to run her hands over that lithe body and explore every inch of it. And take that bra off, the bra absolutely has to come off, that is non-negotiable. 

But Aliya pushes her hands down again when Aly reaches up. Sneers a little. Aly doesn’t like that at all.  _She gets to touch me, why won’t she let me touch her?_  She opens her mouth to say something about Aliya’s control issues, but Aliya jams a leg between Aly’s and Aly arches despite herself. The Russian kisses her savagely, lets Aly’s battered lower lip slide between her teeth before she sets to work on Aly’s collarbone. And moves lower. Aly tries to touch her yet again, to run her fingers gently over those back muscles like she’d always done with Jordyn, and this time Aliya  _bites_  her.

“Ow! That hurt!!”

Aliya doesn’t respond. She traps Aly’s wrists above her head, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, slides her knees over Aly’s legs to pin her there. And then she reaches down with one hand to rake her nails down Aly’s thigh, hard enough that Aly cries out in surprise, and fingers her briefly and exactly where  _holy_ ** _Moses_** _and the major prophets_ before she bites the untouched side of Aly’s neck nearly hard enough to break the skin. Part of Aly wants nothing more than for Aliya to touch her again, touch her longer, she  _wants_  it so badly, but this stopped being on Aly’s terms a while ago and that’s making her really, really uncomfortable, and Aly tries to say something, but Aliya jams her tongue relentlessly down Aly’s throat and sucks the air from her lungs and she can’t protest, she can’t move, she can’t breathe, she can’t.

She can’t.

“Mmph—’liya—mmph—can we—”

“ _What_.”

“Can we,” Aly gasps, “just stop for a second.”

“You talk too much, American.” Aliya leans in impatiently. 

“Wait, I—mmph—” She tries to sit up. Aliya pushes her back down and squeezes her knees around Aly’s hips, latches onto her mouth again. Aly feels a surge of panicked claustrophobia and shoves Aliya. “Hey, I said I want you to stop.”

Aliya finally lifts her head. “You want stop? Why we do this if you want  _stop_?”

“No, just for a moment. I want to slow things down, that’s all.”

The Russian sits back on Aly’s hips and stares at her for a long moment. Then she gets up from the bed and stalks off to stand by the window.

“Wait, Aliya …” Aly sits up, chest still heaving, and frowns.  _What the hell just happened?_ Aliya’s body language radiates what looks like anger (disgust?). Aly tries to think despite the blood still pounding in her ears.  _Maybe she thinks I’m too vanilla._  She isn’t, but that hadn’t felt like the fun kind of rough sex, not at all. Not with the weird way Aliya had been acting earlier that evening. 

A voice in the back of Aly’s head is screaming,  _You idiot, you were getting laid! What’s wrong with you?!_ But her instincts keep insisting that something seems off. This whole thing had started as a harmless crush, but ever since that kiss in the courtyard (and those texts from Jordyn), all she’s wanted is to have this girl every way possible. And Aliya had seemed receptive to her overtures at the party. She’d even been kind of territorial when Nabieva had come onto Aly. Yet the way she’d kissed Aly in the hallway at the party—and everything that’s just happened in this hotel—tell a different story.  _It’s like she’s taking something out on me. Like she doesn’t even see me, like I’m not here at all._   Aly’s beginning to think her initial impression of anger is right. She looks at Aliya, who is brooding by the window, inscrutable as always.  _I bet her teammates can read her._

Her teammates. 

“Is this about Viktoria?” 

Aliya goes still.

_Oh._

**_Oh._ **

And Aly begins to understand now, unwillingly. Moments unfold and connect in a new light. The way Aliya didn’t answer when Aly mentioned Viktoria in the training room and in the garden. Aliya and Viktoria avoiding each other during the AA. Finding Aliya staring at a couple back at the house before Aliya kissed her against the wall. Aly hadn’t recognized the man, though now that she thinks about it the girl might have been … no, almost certainly was—

She closes her eyes and thinks numbly,  _I’m an idiot. I’m a goddamned idiot._  

“So you’re just using me. To … to make Viktoria jealous.” Aly wraps her arms around herself and waits for a response. When no reply is forthcoming, she says, “Aren’t you?”

Aliya does not reply to that, either.

“So none of this was real? Not our date in the city … or, or the dancing and the garden and all that?”

Aly’s beginning to get indignant now. Mustafina’s been rumoured to run hot and cold, but Aly had always thought that the mutual flirting, the time they’d spent together, made Aly _something_  to Aliya. The Ice Queen clearly doesn’t share the same opinion. Or care about collateral damage.

“Will you at least say something?” But Aliya still won’t look at her, like she hopes Aly will stoically absorb the embarrassment, go away, and not bother her with inconvenient emotions. And that is the absolute last straw. Because Aliya Mustafina is not better than everyone else, like Aly had always imagined. The pedestal’s cracked and she’s the same as everyone: feet of clay.

“How could you do this to me?” Aly asked, burning with anger. “I thought we were friends. I thought you liked me. How could you do this to a friend? You led me on and made me think we had something, and then this …” Suddenly Aly hates Aliya more than she’s hated anyone in her entire life. “You knew how I felt about you. You  _knew_ , and you just pretended you liked me so you could play mind games with your ex. I guess that’s all I’m good for, huh? For people to just … use for whatever they want, and none of my feelings matter, because I’m reliable fucking Raisman and I don’t  _have_  feelings, I’m there for people to keep taking for whatever they need and … and then drop me … like I’m nothing…” She’s so angry she’s crying, and that makes her even angrier. She chokes out, “Well, I’m not nothing. So fuck you.” 

She can’t see past the tears flooding her eyes. Aliya’s a blur. Which is good, because if she could see that damn Russian’s face she’d scratch her eyes out. She walks blindly around the bed and finds her clothes by way of stepping on them. She sniffs hard as she puts her underwear back on. Tells herself to pull herself together. She’ll need a cab. She’ll need, god, she’ll need to concoct some story for McKayla. Maybe the cab ride will be long enough for her to think of something…

She fumbles with her dress. It’s inside-out and somehow she can’t get it right. Fresh tears prickle at the backs of her eyes. All she wants is to get dressed as quickly as possible and leave with a modicum of dignity. Instead she’s standing here in her underwear in front of Aliya Mustafina and sniffling into a dress she is never, ever going to wear again, because she never wants to remember this night.

“Alexandra,” Aliya says.

Aly keeps her back turned, unresponsive. Let Aliya get a taste of her own medicine.

“Alexandra. Don’t go. Please.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am sorry.”

Aly’s not ready for apologies. Her temper tends to fade quickly, but anger is all she has right now to stave off grief and shame.  _I’m sorry I was stupid enough to believe you wanted me,_ she wants to say. _If I’d realized how much baggage you have I never would have gotten in that cab._

“All the things you say. You are right. I do bad thing. I make mistake because I am very angry. I am … I think for myself only …” Aliya struggles for words.

“You’re selfish?” Aly suggests.

Aliya accepts that, head bowed. “Yes. I pick you today was selfish. But I … I like you, Alexandra. Very much. If today is different, if we not have other girls and I am not bad person … I still pick you.” Aliya’s face is anguished. “I not know words for saying. I am  _sorry_. I am sorry it is you.” 

The dregs of Aly’s anger drain away in the face of Aliya’s contrition. Now she just feels tired. 

“I thought we were friends, at least,” she says finally. 

“We are,” Aliya pleads.

Aly sighs. She looks down at the dress bunched in her fists.  _How the hell did everything get so messed up?_  She smoothes the dress and lays it over an open dresser drawer. She sits down on the bed.  _Friends,_  she thinks. She looks up at Aliya. “Then come here.”

“Alexandra, what …”

“Friends talk. And I think you owe me an explanation, at least. So come here and tell me about it.” 

Aliya remains rooted to her spot by the window for a moment, wary and vulnerable. She walks over slowly. The bed creaks as she sinks onto it. They’re both barely clothed, but at the moment that doesn’t seem to matter. 

“Start at the beginning. What happened between you and Viktoria?”

“We … we are together for long time. Nobody talk, but everybody know in Krugloye Ozero.”

“Did you love her?”

“Yes. All my heart for her.”  

“Then why did you break up?”

Aliya shakes her head slowly. “Not want to. I am happy. But Vika say she want try something different. With boyfriend. And keep me too. She not want tell me in beginning, think I am angry.”

“Were you?”

“Yes. I am very angry. Vika want two … I want only one. I make her choose. And she pick him.” 

“She chose him even though she knew how you felt?”

“Yes.” Aliya’s jaw clenches. And Aly can’t help feeling sorry for her, remembering how it had felt when Jordyn chose to break things off.

“So … is that when you got together with that boy? I saw it on the internet—Pavel something?”

“Oh, Pavel,” Aliya says dismissively. “He is boyfriend before Olympics. He is—how you say? Not real?”

“For show?”

“Yes. Vika and me, real. Pashka and me, for show.”

Aly thinks about Komova’s possible motivations for driving Aliya away. She wonders if jealousy played a part in Komova’s choice. “Did Viktoria know that? Are you sure she knew how much you loved her?”

“I thought. We not talk about boyfriends much when we are together.” Aliya adds ruefully, “I not talk much about what I feel. Maybe part of problem.”

“It kind of sounds like Viktoria didn’t know how to talk about things either,” Aly says slowly. “Like, she wanted to try stuff with her boyfriend, but she still liked you and didn’t want to break up, and that totally backfired because you ended it with her when you found out. And then you wanted to make her jealous, so you took me home.” She’s just trying to sum things up, but the Russian looks stricken. Aly feels a pang (even though Aliya deserves that).

“Yes. I am sorry, Alexandra.”

“Me too,” Aly says. She touches Aliya’s knee tentatively. “That’s really messed up. It’s sad that you and Viktoria couldn’t figure out how to talk to each other.”

“Yes. Maybe is different for you in America?”

Aly opens her mouth to say that yeah, being gay is different in America, not that she knows everything or has it all figured out, because she’s still kinda new at this, and she and Jordyn hadn’t really talked about—

And for the second time that day, she thinks, _Oh. I’m an idiot._

“We’re a pair, aren’t we,” Aly says softly.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not the only one trying to hurt your ex.” Admitting that out loud isn’t easy. “I was looking for someone after Jordyn and I broke up. You were … not what I was planning. I like you a lot, Aliya. But I loved Jordyn. I still love her. It was really hard when she broke up with me. I kept telling herself I was over her and I even believed it some of the time, and I thought that being with someone who was cool like you would help me get over her for good. And I guess I wanted her to be jealous, like, to make her see that I didn’t need her. Because … when we were together, I was so sure we’d stay together. I took that for granted. I took her for granted.” Aly hears her voice tremble and shuts her lips tightly, trying to tamp down the emotion welling up inside her. She concentrates on her breathing.

And Aliya takes her hand, calloused fingertips sliding against her palm, offering wordless comfort. Her thumb rubs Aly’s knuckles soothingly. Aly watches its motion. She doesn’t understand how Aliya’s touch can make her feel more at peace and yet even sadder at the same time. She says, “I pushed Jordyn too hard to commit. We were going to tell our parents and our family, but we’re kind of famous and the whole country would have known, like,  _really_ quick, and everyone would’ve been in our faces about it.”

“How long are you together?”

“We hadn’t even been together for a year.” Aly rubs the bridge of her nose. “We should have gone slower, instead of me trying to push a choice she totally wasn’t ready for. Maybe if I’d talked to her and eased off, we’d still be together. We could have come out later. When we were both ready.” She attempts a smile. “So to answer your question: no, turns out it’s not too different in America after all.” 

Aliya rubs Aly’s forearm with her free hand and Aly’s eyes well up again. Aliya’s empathy is too much. Her eyes are too gentle and Aly feels like she could drown in them. She wishes that things had gone differently between them tonight.

“You should talk to Viktoria,” she says instead with an effort. “Maybe she likes this guy, maybe not, but maybe you can figure things out. And, Aliya. You’re amazing, OK? You’re not a bad person. Any girl would be beyond lucky to have you. If you … if you were mine, I wouldn’t take anything for granted.”

Aly’s chest is tight. Her throat feels like she’s swallowed a baseball. She’s sorry for Aliya, sorry for Viktoria, sorry for herself and for what she and Jordyn lost. Nothing seems right anymore and she doesn’t know how to make it right. Instead she listens to the sound of their breathing. She can feel Aliya’s eyes on her. She wonders what Aliya will do next, because she has no plan.

What Aliya does is take Aly’s hand between both of hers and lift it to her lips for a long moment. The apology and regret in that gesture speak volumes. She turns to meet Aliya’s gaze. They look at each other in the dim light, unspeaking, and it seems then to Aly that the world comes to a halt.

Aliya reaches up hesitantly to tuck a strand of hair behind Aly’s ear. Her fingertips drift over to trace Aly’s features like she wants to memorize them, and Aly turns her face slightly into Aliya’s caress. When Aliya leans in to kiss her forehead, Aly doesn’t draw back. Aliya brushes a kiss against her temple, against her cheek, trails kisses along the length of her jaw. Pauses there, breath mingling with Aly’s. She’s so close, and waiting, so clearly waiting, letting Aly choose. 

“We shouldn’t,” Aly says, every word a futile effort against inevitable surrender.

Aliya presses her forehead to Aly’s. “Please. Let me do this for you.” 

And though she knows she should refuse for both their sakes, Aly can’t make herself move away. 

Aliya kisses one corner of Aly’s mouth slowly. She lifts a hand to tilt Aly’s chin for better access and kisses the other corner. And finally, whisper-soft, her lips. The simple human contact reaches the lonely place inside Aly, loosening the constriction in her chest. Aly moves a hand around to the small of Aliya’s back and Aliya skims her fingers over the hard muscle of Aly’s bicep. Although the air in the hotel room is cool, the goosebumps Aly feels have nothing to do with the temperature. She slides her free hand along Aliya’s back. Aliya’s skin is as silky soft under Aly’s hand as she’d imagined. She leans into the kiss, opening her mouth gently against the movement of the other girl’s lips and asking for entry. Aliya grants it, rests a hand on her leg and starts to stroke her inner thigh with her thumb. It doesn’t take long for Aly to become hyper-aware of that hand. Longing surges inside her and she inhales as she presses her mouth harder against Aliya’s. This time, when she reaches for the clasp of Aliya’s bra, there’s no resistance.

Aly’s the one who deepens the kiss and undresses them both, but Aliya’s the one who winds strong arms around her and lays her out on the bed. Braced above Aly, Aliya kisses her with growing passion. She draws back briefly to look down at Aly, hair hanging around them like a curtain. One last chance to choose another road. In answer, Aly pulls Aliya on top of her.

The sensation of Aliya’s body against hers is overwhelming. Aly is impatient at how deliberately Aliya moves at first. She wants more and she wants it quickly. But she relaxes when she understands what Aliya’s doing—that this is not only about foreplay. Soft lips drift down her neck, over her collarbone and breast, against her bruised wrists and the sensitive skin on the inside of her forearms. Over the angry red scratches on her thigh. That makes Aly’s breath catch, and it’s where Aliya begins to explore what Aly likes. 

She takes her time with her new discoveries, plays Aly like an instrument, brings her to the brink again and again. And when Aly is so ready she’s almost screaming, Aliya gives her what she needs. 

Taut muscles slacken finally. Aly lets her eyes stay shut as the waves ebb. She feels lips on hers briefly before Aliya moves off to lie next to her. After a time she opens her eyes, stares at the ceiling.

_Wow._

Aliya’s drawing patterns on Aly’s arm, calluses catching pleasantly against Aly’s skin. Aly lets her head fall to the side so she can watch Aliya’s perfectly-manicured fingernails.

“That was incredible,” Aly says. “You were amazing.”

And Aliya, drawing invisible circles, replies, “Your next girlfriend … very lucky.” 

Aly studies the sweep of dark eyelash against pale cheek, the way Aliya’s biting her lip. 

“So is yours,” she says gently.

Aliya’s fingers stop. She won’t look at Aly, not even when Aly covers Aliya’s hand with hers. So Aly props herself up on one elbow, plants her other hand on the far side of Aliya’s body, lowers her head.

“Let me do this for you,” she says. 

“Alexandra,” Aliya says. Her voice is little more than a whisper, for she can no more resist Aly than Aly could resist her. Aly dips her head the remaining distance and brushes her lips against Aliya’s with all the compassion she has in her.  _It’s not fair,_  she thinks, apropos of nothing. Aliya tugs her closer. When she tastes salt, she does not know whether the tears are hers or Aliya’s. 

At first she simply kisses Aliya and skims her hands down Aliya’s sides. She finds a sensitive spot on her ribcage quickly. Aliya shifts under her as Aly moves to pay attention to that spot. She comes back up to nibble at the hollow of Aliya’s neck and work her way across the swell of her breasts. This close, she can feel the rapid pulse of Aliya’s heartbeat. Aly leans up to kiss Aliya again and reaches downward, trailing fingertips slowly over Aliya’s abs and further past. Aliya’s perfect lips part when Aly touches her. Gorgeous eyes slide shut in reaction to the movement of Aly’s fingers. Aly watches her face almost reverently. 

She drops a kiss right below Aliya’s solar plexus and sits back. Aliya makes an endearing, muffled noise of weak protest, but as Aly traces the curve of her hips, she submits to Aly’s pace. Aly runs her hands along Aliya’s legs, teases the backs of her knees, finds the barely-visible scar on Aliya’s knee. She pauses to look at it. Kisses it gently and brushes her thumb across it.

When she doesn’t immediately move on, Aliya sits up. “Alexandra?” 

Aly says slowly, “You know, when I heard about your injury, I was afraid you wouldn’t come back to gymnastics. I knew you didn’t even know who I was. But I was afraid I wouldn’t ever get to see you again.” She slides her palms down Aliya’s calves and looks up. The way Aliya’s looking at her makes Aly’s stomach flutter pleasantly.

Aliya leans forward and captures Aly’s mouth with hers. Aly responds, laying Aliya back on the bed and kisses her deeply. She parts Aliya’s thighs, then moves up to tease the skin along Aliya’s hipbones with her thumbs and tongue, tracing inward. Aliya’s breathing is becoming more erratic. Aliya sucks in a breath when Aly licks her, and Aly doesn’t keep her waiting much longer. As Aliya’s legs tighten around her, Aly hopes to salve a wound she hasn’t caused, to be enough for a moment’s happiness. If Aliya cries another’s name in that moment, Aly doesn’t hold it against her. 

Aliya lets Aly hold her afterward. She presses a kiss against Aliya’s shoulder, memorizes what Aliya feels like curled against her. 

“You’re quiet.”

“Yes.” Aliya turns her head slightly to smile at Aly. “I can be quiet with you. I like.”

“I’m glad.” And she is. She knows not many people see this side of Aliya. After a few minutes, Aly asks, “Are you thinking about her?”

Aliya sighs. “Yes. I am with her so long. Strange with someone else.”

“I know what you mean.”

“You are thinking about…”

“Jordyn? Yeah.” Aly is surprised to find that the image of Jo’s face comes without the dull pain she’d felt earlier in the week. Aliya’s warmth against her helps. “We haven’t stayed in touch. I used to tell her everything. I miss her, you know?”

“Yes.”

Aly rubs Aliya’s wrist with her thumb. “What are you going to do about Viktoria?”

“Not know. Is hard, be in gym and not be friends. Live in same place, go to gym every day.” Aliya turns over to face Aly. “What you do?”

“Jo seems happy. She’s got a boyfriend, she’s in college. But she texted me the other day and it brought back a bunch of feelings. I don’t really know what to do.”

“Maybe you talk to her?”

“Maybe,” Aly says. Aliya twines a lock of Aly’s hair around her fingers and Aly closes her eyes. It would be easy to drift off to sleep in Aliya’s bed. But eventually Aliya stirs. 

“We leave tomorrow,” she says.

“Yeah,” Aly says. She understands everything Aliya isn’t saying. She reluctantly rolls away and gets out of bed.

This time Aly’s dress seems manageable. She zips it up and goes over to the sink to check her hair in the mirror. The girl who looks back at her looks no different, but she feels like something’s changed. 

Aliya appears behind her, clad in warm-up bottoms and a faded T-shirt. She has Aly’s jacket—the one Aly had loaned to her in the garden (was that really only a few hours ago?). She meets Aly’s gaze in the mirror. Holds up the jacket so Aly can slide into it. Aliya settles the fabric of the coat around her shoulders solicitously and frees a few locks of hair from under the collar. Aly feels a lump begin to grow in her throat again. She turns to face the taller girl.

“I’ll miss you,” she says. She’s not ready to say goodbye. But Aliya brushes hair from her face and stands back.  

“I also.”

Aly swallows hard. She wants very much to kiss Aliya goodbye. She probably shouldn’t. Already she can sense Aliya pulling away, dutifully creating that space for both of them. She thinks of Aliya back at Round Lake, unable to escape seeing Viktoria and Nikita, brooding by herself with no one to tell her she’s worth choosing. “Will you write to me?” she asks impulsively.

Aliya hesitates. 

“Just … tell me how training’s going, things like that. Please,” Aly adds. “I care about you. I need to know you’ll be OK.”

Aliya looks at her with an almost joyful tenderness that makes Aly’s heart break further. She closes the space between them and takes Aly in her arms. The kiss is passionate at first as lips and tongues move almost desperately, then turns slow and chaste and bittersweet. 

They write their email addresses on the hotel notepad. Aly stows the folded piece of paper carefully in her clutch. Aliya moves past her, one hand on her arm, to crack open the door and see if the coast is clear. She nods at Aly and guides her out into the empty hallway. In the elevator, they stand side by side.

“What happens when you get home?” Aly asks.

“Training for week,” Aliya says. “Then go home for week. Maybe we talk then on computer?”

“I’d like that,” Aly says. She reaches over and takes Aliya’s hand. “I really hope things go OK for you.”

Aliya squeezes her fingers. “And you.”

The doors open. There, standing in the middle of the hotel lobby with an armload of overpriced snacks, is Viktoria Komova. Aliya drops Aly’s hand, but it’s too late. Viktoria says one word in Russian.  _Her?_ Aly interprets. Or maybe  _Why?_ or  _How could you?_  

Aliya doesn’t seem to know what to say in response. Viktoria barks a short laugh and shakes her head. Aly takes in Viktoria’s red-rimmed eyes and the indecision in Aliya’s stance and feels a twinge as Viktoria turns away. Being selfless isn’t an easy choice in this moment when she wants to say goodbye to Aliya alone, no complications—when she doesn’t know if she’ll ever see Aliya again. Yet she genuinely wants Aliya to repair her relationship in whatever way possible, and there’s an opportunity here if Aliya seizes it. So Aly says, “Go. Aliya, go after her.” 

Aliya nods after a moment. She surprises Aly by saying urgently, “Wait for me,” before she jogs after Viktoria. Aly sinks into a chair in the lobby. 

Aliya catches Viktoria before Viktoria can escape into the stairwell. Aly couldn’t understand their conversation even if their voices carried this far, but she can read the body language from her seat: Viktoria, defensive, unhappy, clearly (finally) realizing what her choices have led to. Aliya, diffident and persuasive. 

_Please,_  Aly thinks.  _Let there at least be a chance for them._ She can’t watch any longer. Feeling like an intruder, she pulls out her phone and checks her text messages. There’s one from Mac, wondering if she’s OK or if she needs to send in a SWAT team. Aly smiles a little and sends a quick reply.

There’s a new text from Jordyn. It’s a continuation of her unanswered texts from earlier.  _I understand if you don’t want to talk to me. You deserve the best, Aly. I hope you find it._

She isn’t able to compose a response by the time Aliya comes back. Aly needs time to think things over. It’s going to be fine, though; after Aliya, Aly no longer feels unequal to the task.

“You OK?”

Aliya nods. She looks—not peaceful, exactly, but something like it. “Vika and I talk at home,” she says.

“Good,” Aly says.

They wait at the curb together in silence. Aliya flags a cab down and turns to Aly, envelops her in a hug that Aly gladly leans into. Aly feels how tightly Aliya holds her and wonders again what could have happened between them in another life. But they live on opposite sides of the world and they both love other people, and there is no way to know what could have been. 

Aliya closes the cab door for her. Aly looks up at her through the window. Aliya’s face seems carved from stone and her hazel eyes are shadowed. But when Aly smiles tremulously at her, she smiles back. 

On the plane home the next day, McKayla silently threads her fingers through Aly’s. Aly squeezes McKayla’s hand and leans her head against the window as the airport recedes beneath them. She feels wistful and empty now, like the calm that settles bone-deep after a good bout of crying. She’s walked a crooked line for too long, blinded by what she’d thought she knew, and she regrets the pain they’ve all experienced. Yet she wouldn’t trade what she and Aliya have shared for anything. 

She watches the shadows of clouds pass across the face of the land. Then there is nothing but sky and ocean and the promise of a fresh start. Soon she’ll be home.

_Only half of what we know comes true in time_   
_Half of what we know comes true_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go out to: janethesavage for her great beta work on this chapter; the Top Sekrit peeps; my Tumblr wife vikamustafina (even though we disagree on Raistafina :-P); and, most of all, to the few loyal fans who remembered this series existed and kept bugging me to write. I hope you enjoyed the ride.
> 
> (That’s what she said.)


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into what happens after Antwerp.

_New York City  
_ _September 2016_

Aly’s barely touched her latte when she sees the woman walk into the coffee shop. No one actually looks up—this is New York, after all—but a few people sneak glances at the new customer. It might be because of that magnetic presence, or maybe some of them recognize her from the NBC coverage. Aly smiles and waves. Aliya smiles back, the familiar grin that makes her look younger than she is, and comes over. 

“Hey, you,” Aly says, drawing her into a big hug.

“It’s good to see you, Alexandra.”

“You, too. Can I buy you some coffee? Tea?”

“Thank you, I just eat.” They sit down. Aliya says, “You look very nice.”

“You look great. But where’s your bling?”

“Bling?”

“Your silver medal. I think you’re contractually obligated to wear that thing everywhere for at least a month after the Olympics.”

Aliya chuckles. “It doesn’t go with my clothes.”

“Silly, silver goes with everything.” Aly leans her chin on her hand. “Did you get my last email?”

“Yes. You want me to come to your gym? Teach bars?”

“I think it would be fun. And let’s be honest, Brestyan’s could use a bars clinic.”

“This is true,” Aliya agrees, deadpan.

Aly makes a face at her but lets it slide. “Text me when your schedule settles down and we’ll set something up for while you’re here. And you should come visit even if you can’t do a clinic, my girls would love to see you.”

“I will.” Something catches Aliya’s eye. She reaches across the table and takes Aly’s hand. “That is beautiful.”

“I like it,” Aly agrees, looking down at the ring. 

Aliya regards her, still holding Aly’s hand. “Are you happy, Alexandra?”

“Very happy. Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Aliya says simply.

“Good.” Aly feels a smile spread across her face. “Good.” She squeezes Aliya’s hand and lets go. “So tell me about Rio…”

**Author's Note:**

> To my knowledge, no Olympic gymnast has come out publicly. Josh Dixon, a member of the US men’s national team, came out a few months before Trials but did not make the Olympic team.


End file.
